Truth or Dare
by gleeeeeful
Summary: SEQUEL TO HIS WICKED GAMES. After their steamy session at Blaine's mansion, they're moving their...whatever they are... into the real world. How does their chemistry and potential for a relationship fare when Blaine is looking for a new start and Kurt is trying to help Brooklyn Center stay afloat? Based on the novel by Ember Casey. M-rated for language and sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

I'm elbows-deep in invoices when a shadow falls across my desk.

"Will, I'm really trying to rush on these invoices," I say without looking up to look my boss in the eye. "The bride for the wedding Memorial Day weekend called and upped her headcount… again… and despite the fact that this event is in two weeks, she said that cost was no issue even though I noted that it'd be a rush charge to get extra furniture and linens. The things these crazy women do for their 'perfect wedding,' I swear, they're nuts."

I push a hair off of my forehead as I continue to look down at the numbers the look jumbled due to the endless hours of checking and cross-checking every cost.

"Have you heard from the Robinsons?" I continue, turning to my computer. "They were supposed to call and confirm for the twenty-eighth of June. And we should probably figure out when we're doing the summer gallery show next year even though we're still trying to work out things for this summer. I already have a bride who wants to use us for her reception in—"

A hand grasps me firmly by the chin and tilts my face up. Suddenly I'm staring into a pair of intoxicating honeyed eyes, and my breath hitches in my throat.

"Have you forgotten about something?" a deep, familiar voice taunts as I can feel myself practically turning into goo.

Even after all this time – months, really – the sight of Blaine Anderson still makes my stomach do summersaults. He's looking particularly sexy right now with his broad frame accentuated with the fine cut of his navy sport coat, his hair curling slightly atop his head and his lips set in the perfect smile that manages to seem sweet and sexy all at once. But if he's here, that can only mean one thing.

"Shit!" I say, pulling out of his grip. I scrabble around on the desk, looking for my cell, but I already know what the time will say. When I do find the phone, buried beneath a file of class registration forms, the screen reads 6:53PM.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

"I swear, the last time I glanced at the time it was three o'clock." I dart around the desk, looking frantically for my wallet and keys. If I hurry, if I leave my hair as-is and don't think too much about how my shirt might not be immaculately pressed—

Blaine catches me as I try to sweep past him and draws me toward him. The motion pulls me off balance, and I fall against his chest, my hands clutching at the smooth lapels of his jacket and my nose brushing the crook of his neck. I freeze, and he loops his arms around my waist and holds me there. He smells faintly of soap and, beneath that, his own intoxicating scent. I take a deep breath, breathing him in. It's been too long since I've seen him, too long since he's held me like this in his arms.

Okay, it's only been three weeks. Three weeks since Blaine chased me through the maze on his former estate. Three weeks since I've had him in front of me, close enough to touch. Three weeks since his fingers skimmed across my bare skin, as they're dancing over my neck right now. Those three weeks might as well have been a billion years.

"You forgot? Should I be worried?" he asks.

I roll my eyes. But of course, screw-up that I am, I lose track of time on the day of our first real date. "I'm so sorry," I say. "I swear, I—"

He silences me with his lips. His mouth is gentle at first, hesitant, like he's uncertain how I'll respond after our time apart. Like he's forgotten how natural, how right our bodies feel against each other. But the minute his lips touch mine, my entire body comes alive. Goose bumps ripple across my flesh, chasing the waves of heat that rush just beneath the surface of my skin. I let out a small moan, and whatever doubts Blaine had seem to disappear.

He yanks me against his body, crushing me to his hard chest. His mouth moves hungrily, desperately, against my own, and mine meets his with equal passion. I revel in the taste of him, eager to drink it all in.

Damn, I missed this.

He's backing me up against my desk now, and I don't protest when he pushes me down on top of it. Something falls to the floor beside us. My files? The invoices? Honestly, I don't care. One of Blaine's hands moves around the small of my back while the other winds behind my neck grazing the wisps of hair at the base of my neck, his fingers gently caressing my neck in a hypnotic way that somehow feels better than when I go to the salon for a trim. Normally I would be irritated that he messed with my hair, but the way in which he's moving against me has me letting go of all my worries. He leans over me, nudging my thighs apart so he can press nearer and rub his half-hard erection next to my rapidly growing one. I can barely contain myself as the slightest pressure of our hips together sends me into a dizzying state where the only things I can process are Blaine's lips and his dick trapped against mine. There's a clatter as something else tumbles off the desk. Something big this time—probably that dinosaur of a three-hole punch we've had since this place opened.

There's no way Will didn't hear that.

I push Blaine off of me and sit up, grabbing him by the tie even as Will's voice floats in from the next room. "Kurt? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine! It's nothing!" I tug Blaine around the desk and shove him down onto the floor. He's too surprised to resist or argue, and I pray that he catches the warning in my glare. I'm just bending to pick up the three-hole punch when Will appears in the doorway.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," I say, waving the beast of a gadget at him. "Just knocked a couple of things off my desk."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Blaine raise his eyebrows in surprise. I give him a small kick, hoping he gets the hint.

Will is looking curiously at me, and I realize suddenly how disheveled I must appear. My hands skim over my shirt, my pants – hoping for no signs of the erection that I had felt just a few moments earlier. And—oh, God—my hair… I look absolutely disheveled and I pray that I don't look like I was just rubbing up against Blaine like a high schooler in the back hallway at the prom.

"It's been a rough day," I say, trying to brush it off, hoping against hope that my face isn't as red as it feels. Crap, are my lips swollen? I think as I rub my fingers against my lips, hoping that they don't look red and bitten, even if I'm 100% sure that they do.

But Will either doesn't notice or chooses not to see. I'm hoping it's the former and he's having one of his oblivious moments where he's deciding not to be my friend but rather my boss. I'll take his obliviousness for now – especially with Blaine shoved under my desk. I slide into the chair behind my desk, sliding far enough out that I'm not crowding Blaine who's hidden beneath, but close enough that I look primed and ready to work behind my solid desk. I've never been more thankful that my desk is as giant and opaque than I am right now.

"That Collins woman again?" he says. "She's been a real trip."

I nod. "Called and changed her numbers again. I—"

Blaine is touching me. His fingers are sliding up my leg—softly, slowly, sending shivers all the way up my thigh even through my pants. I clear my throat and try to shift away from him, but his hand follows. He slowly pulls me toward him in my rolling chair and I hope that my hands grabbing for purchase with the unexpected slide of my chair on my chair go unnoticed by Will.

"I—I redid the invoices and already sent an update to the linens company so hopefully we're all set," I manage, indicating the papers that are still on the floor. I can't manage to try and pick them up at the moment since I'm pretty sure that erection I had sported before is now back in full force. I slump slightly in response, causing my knees to fall to either side of Blaine's face.

Oh god, that probably was a bad choice.

Blaine's hand has slipped beneath the front of my now un-tucked shirt, and it's slowly inching its way around to the front of my pants. His breath is warm against my navel and the heat of his breath against the fabric of my shirt is intoxicating. When I try to gently nudge his face away, he nips at my knee through the fabric and hums against my knee but quickly making his way toward my crotch, the warmth moving toward my now full-fledged erection. I try not to squirm.

"How many do they have coming?" Will asks.

It's hard to remember the number with Blaine's mouth teasing my thigh and his hand now slowly pulling at my zipper. "Two hundred and twelve, I think?"

Will whistles. "A big one."

"We need it." I grip the desk, trying to keep my face blank. Blaine's ever-climbing hand finished unzipping the zipper of my pants while nudging his head further into my lap. In spite of the situation, my body reacts instinctively to the touch. Heat pools in my lower belly, a contrast to the panicked lump in my throat. I'm having trouble breathing normally, and my face and neck feel warmer with every passing second. I swear, if Will finds out about us like this, Blaine's going to get it. And by "it" I don't mean the prize he's currently seeking between my legs. It's not that Will is my father, but he certainly would frown on Blaine getting me off underneath my desk where I also prepare lesson plans for children's art programs.

I shift again, and this time I feel my knee connect with Blaine's cheek. He sucks in a breath, and I cough to cover up the sound.

Will's frowning. Great, he must have heard.

But no—he's shaking his head. "Didn't you have dinner plans with a friend?"

"Yes. Yes I do." I smile. "I was just about to change."

Will's smiling again. "Good. You've been working too much these past few weeks."

"I could say the same of you."

It's true, but if I'm being honest, Will looks the best he has in months. When the Brooklyn Center for the Arts was on the brink of closing, he was a mess. I've never seen him look so old, so tired, so haggard. But now he might be a decade younger. He's smiling more—laughing, even—and, as cheesy as it sounds, the sparkle is back in his eyes. We're not completely out of danger yet, but we're moving steadily in the right direction, and that positive energy has been enough to make Will excited about this place again.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," he says. "You have fun tonight."

"Will do."

No sooner has he turned away than Blaine grabs my hand and yanks me down beside him—or, more accurately, on top of him. I'm thankful that my desk has a wall that obscured Blaine from view, but I'm also thankful that it's a glorified table with some wood on the front of it. I would have really hurt myself if it was a standard desk – especially since I'm taller than Blaine and two men will barely fit under here in the first place. I squirm as he wraps his arms around me, holding me hostage.

"That was an interesting welcome," he murmurs against my hair. "First you forget about our date—"

"I didn't forget," I insist. "I just got caught up in—"

"And then you hide me from your boss like we're in high school and got caught making out in the locker room or something." His arms tighten around my waist. "Are you embarrassed by me?"

"No! Of course not! I just haven't told Will, or anyone really, about you yet. He's not—I mean, I don't think he hates you or anything. He certainly doesn't have any control over my decisions, but he is a bit overinvolved in my…" I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but instead he flips me over so that I'm beneath him. His face looms over mine, but I don't get a chance to read his expression before he dips his head and nuzzles my neck.

"You mean he won't exactly be happy to know you're dating the guy who almost brought this place down around your ears," he murmurs before attacking my throat with his mouth.

I barely manage a nod, far too distracted by the way his tongue is warming my flesh between his teeth's nips and I can already feel myself coming undone just from his mouth on my neck. But he's right; when I had agreed to the date, I had told him to meet me outside. I'm not ashamed of Blaine – goodness knows he's a little out of my league in traditional circles that value his wealth and upbringing – but I know Will wouldn't take too kindly to the guy who nearly bankrupted us parading around the place with his tongue down my throat. Plus that would require me to tell him about how Blaine and I met in the first place, and that's not a conversation I really want to invite into my life right now.

"Plus," I manage after a minute, "he's going to wonder how it came about, and I never exactly told him the truth about that weekend." Ah, yes—those three days I spent trapped in the Anderson mansion playing cat-and-mouse with Blaine, letting him tease me and taunt me and give me the most intense and gratifying sex I've ever had in my life. Even now I shiver at the memory.

But it's not exactly something you tell your boss. Especially when the sex god in question is the person responsible for the near-ruin of his nonprofit arts center. And that's exactly what makes our current position on the floor of my office especially compromising.

But Blaine has noticed my body's reaction, and he's not about to let this opportunity slip out of his fingers.

"What, you don't want your boss to know what dirty, dirty things you've done?" he whispers against my throat. He grabs my pants and begins to taunt at my cock, which is now slipping through the hole that the zipper has opened up though still covered in my underwear.

"Blaine!" I rasp, batting at his hands. "Not here."

He ignores me. His fingers slide down my pants and tease at my cock that's he's pulling from my black boxer briefs. I can feel his fingers brushing closer with the sensitive skin and it's setting my whole body on fire.

"Blaine…" This time it doesn't sound like much of a warning. God, when did I lose complete control over my body?

His hand slips beneath the thin fabric of my underwear and skims across my cock. I writhe against him, but my attempts to get away only backfire, judging by the bulge I feel in his pants. He unbuttons the pants (I'm thankful that I didn't wear a belt today) and starts to pull my them and my underwear down my legs. If I don't do anything quickly, he's going to have me right here on the floor of my office. It's already bad enough that I'm completely unclothed from the waist down, but if he has me while still wearing his clothes with only his dick exposed, it'll take our sex lives to a whole new level of heated.

Not that my body seems to mind the idea. I'm trembling, aching for that touch I've missed these past weeks. When he slips his fingers between my legs and pushes the way back toward my ass and lightly teases my hole, I just about lose it.

"What about dinner?" I ask him frantically.

"Screw dinner."

"I still have to change."

"Go naked."

"If you think I'm going to have sex with you while Will's in the next room…"

"That just makes it more… stimulating, doesn't it?" His adept fingers brush again against my hole and I can't help but clench in response and wish to almighty God that I had stored lube somewhere in my office. It's totally impractical aside from this moment right now.

Part of me wants to just give in, to surrender myself to the pent up sexual energy that's consumed me since the last time we saw each other. But fortunately, the rational part of my mind hasn't completely jumped ship just yet.

"Martin's expecting us," I remind him.

At the mention of his family's former chef, Blaine sighs. His explorations of my body cease, his fingers retract, and his grip loosens on my waist.

"Martin was always quite the cockblock," he growls. But he moves his fingers across my clothed cock a final time, and amusement flashes in his eyes when I let out a soft whimper.

"Tonight," he promises, "you'll be begging me for it. And I'm going to fuck you until you can't even remember your own name, let alone annoying little things like dinner plans."

His words send a thrill through my core, but I can't let him see how much they affect me or we'll never get out of here. I wiggle once more beneath him, and he sighs and rolls off of me. I give him a playful hit as I sit up. If we're going to be on time for our reservation, I don't have much time to change and freshen up.

"Just stay down there for a minute," I say, glancing around once more for my bag and pulling up my pants and underwear. "I'm going to run to the bathroom and change."

He pushes himself up on his elbows, grinning. "Or you could just close the door and change in here. I promise I'll behave."

"I don't believe that for a minute. Besides, you're not supposed to see me naked before the first date."

His eyes darken. "I think we're already past that barrier."

"You know what I mean."

He chuckles, but his eyes continue to burn into mine. "It won't stop me from trying to get your clothes off."

If we didn't have a reservation—and if Will weren't right next door—I would just give into his teasing. But we aren't locked away in his mansion, shut off from the rest of the world. We're in the Brooklyn Center, and we have a very important reservation.

"Martin will be disappointed if we're late," I remind him again.

"Fine. I'll behave. But you better hurry, or I'll ravish you anyway. And I don't care who in this place knows it."

I find my bag behind the door and grab it, not bothering to respond. I don't want to give him any encouragement. Even the feeling of his gaze on me makes prickles dance across my skin, and I know it wouldn't take much to break my resistance completely.

God, it's just too easy for him, isn't it?

I race down the hallway and lock myself in the bathroom. It takes me only about a minute to slip out of my work clothes – a somewhat boring button-up with looser fitting khakis and pull on the tight black pants and fitted silvery blue shirt I brought along. It's sexy and suggestive without being too obvious—perfect for a first date.

It feels so strange, preparing for an actual date with Blaine. I mean, my primary acquaintance with this man stems from those passionate, erotic days I spent with him on his former estate. That whole weekend still feels like a very strange but vivid sexual dream—I mean, we played hide and go seek, for God's sake—and I can't quite reconcile that experience with my normal everyday life.

I put on my shoes next, and then I adjust my hair a bit while reaching in my bag for a dab of cologne to fully refresh for the date. I'm suddenly nervous, and an anxious lump settles in my belly as I shake my waves of hair out around my shoulders. What will Blaine think of me, now that the erotic fairy tale is over? When I'm not a desperate prisoner, and he no longer has the world at his feet? When we're just two ordinary people eating dinner?

I force myself to take a deep breath as I give myself a final once-over in the mirror.

Everything's going to be fine, I tell myself. I'm going to have an amazing time tonight.

I grab my things from the floor and hurry back to my office.

Blaine is no longer hiding behind the desk.

"What are you doing?" I say, looking nervously down the hall. "What if Will walked by?"

He's standing at my wall, looking at my pictures. At the end of every instructional cycle, we take photos of each of the art classes. I've taught more than a few classes during my time here, and I keep every picture.

"I didn't realize you worked with the kids," Blaine says, still staring at the images.

"I do a little bit of everything around here. At a place as small as this, you learn to wear more than a few hats."

He nods, frowning a little. I wonder what he's thinking—whether he's remembering his own part in the Brooklyn Center's troubles. But not his part—his father's part. It's not Blaine's fault that he inherited financial troubles.

I walk over and place my hand gently on his arm. The touch seems to bring him back to the present, and the clouds disappear from his expression. He turns to me, and he opens his mouth to speak, but then his eyes widen slightly. His gaze drifts down my body.

"You," he says, grabbing my hand and bringing it to his lips, "are absolutely breathtaking."

I'm blushing again. I try to tug my hand away, but he holds it tight. He flicks his tongue across the tips of my fingers, and heat rushes to my cock.

"I thought of your punishment," he says.

"Punishment?"

"For forgetting our date." He holds out his hand. "Your underwear, please."

I raise my eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"I think it's a suitable request, considering the emotional distress you put me through."

"Yeah, you seem very distressed," I tease. But I don't object when he reaches out and pulls down my zipper and tugging my pants down for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.

"Go on, then," he says.

I cast a quick glance back at the door before grabbing my pants and underwear and pushing them down. Blaine gives my bareness an appreciative glance before I quickly step out of the pants and remove the underwear from their place before handing them to Blaine. Despite me sensing Blaine's leer, I swiftly pull my pants up and shift uncomfortably as I zip them closed while avoiding my sensitive cock.

At least I had the foresight to wear a sexy pair of underwear. They're black and tight, and Blaine seems all too pleased when I hand them over.

"Don't worry," he says, his voice low and husky. "I'll take good care of them for you."

"I'm glad I'm wearing pants or else I could have a Britney moment," I joke. I'm worried about how I'll be able to adjust any… uprisings… without the support of my tight underwear but I'm hoping that bringing humor to the situation will quell the arousal that's lurking beneath the surface.

He looks as if he's about to devour me whole. "Then I'll just have to take care of that for you, won't I?"

He slips the underwear into his pocket, and I cover my crotch as I shift my dick around so it doesn't rub directly against the zipper. I'm already experiencing the effect he desired, but I can't let things get out of hand.

"Dinner," I remind him.

"Of course."

I lead him to the door, taking care to glance around for Will before slipping out into the hallway. I feel extra scandalous without any underwear, but I can't let that distract me. We need to get out of here unnoticed.

We're almost to the front door—almost free—when I hear a small gasp to my left. Morgan, one of our new teachers, stands at the door to her classroom, gaping at us.

Well, gaping at Blaine, more accurately. He has that effect sometimes.

Morgan blinks, then squints. I imagine she's trying to figure out how and why she recognizes the gorgeous man standing in our lobby. She wasn't here last year to meet Blaine the one time he visited the Center with his father, but she's probably seen his face on the tabloids more than a couple of times.

But as much as I'd love to indulge her curiosity, Will's sure to spot us if we linger here too long.

"We're late for dinner," I tell her. "But I'll talk to you in the morning?"

Morgan's eyes flick to me, and she nods. The promise of an explanation tomorrow seems to satisfy her for the moment. I make another dash for the door with Blaine in tow, but I pause at the threshold, glancing back.

"Do me a favor and keep this from Will?"

Her eyes widen in surprise, but she breaks into a smile. "I get it," she says, winking. "Your secret's safe. You two have _fun_." Her voice rises suggestively on the last word, and I feel myself blushing once more as Blaine and I escape outside.

"Can she keep a secret?" Blaine asks, slipping a hand onto my lower back and guiding me across the parking lot. "Or should I expect a murder attempt by your boss in the middle of the night?"

"He won't murder you."

"Ah, good."

"He's more of the torturing type."

He grins in response, but I detect a hint of worry behind his amusement.

"I'll tell people about us soon," I promise. "I just need to figure out how to raise the topic." But that's not the only thing I have to figure out. Even if I can come up with a reasonable explanation for my current association with Blaine, what exactly do I call this thing between us? I know that we're attracted to each other, and I believe there's a deeper emotional connection here. But how deep? We're not even technically "exclusive"—right?

Look at me. We're not even to the car and I'm already over-analyzing things.

Thus begins the Madness of Kurt Hummel.

Still, I put on a smile. I'm on a date with Blaine Anderson. I need to stop worrying and enjoy myself.

He stops in front of a silver sedan.

"Your chariot, my prince." He eyes the car sidelong. "This is where I wish I'd found a way to keep the Lamborghini."

I laugh. "You've seen the death trap that I drive. This looks like pure luxury." I should tell him that it doesn't matter what he drives—that he could carry me to the restaurant on the handlebars of a bicycle, for all I care—but that sentiment sounds way too sappy. So I bite my lip and let him guide me into the passenger's seat.

I cross my hands in my lap as he walks around to the driver's side. My nerves have returned in full force. Back on his estate, I felt wild and wicked and seductive. In that strange, secluded mansion, I discovered a passionate, confidently-sexual side of myself that I never even knew existed. Now? I feel like a freaking high schooler on his first grown-up date—uncertain and awkward and terrified.

Please, don't let me vomit in his car…

He flashes me another one of his killer smiles as he slides into his seat. It sets off an entire circus of butterflies in my stomach. He puts his keys into the ignition, but he doesn't start the car. Instead, he leans over and takes me by the chin, pulling my lips to his.

I lean into his kiss, sinking into the sensations sweeping through me. This I can handle. This fire, this physical passion. I open my mouth beneath his, let his breath mingle with mine. His hand skims lightly over my chest, teasing my nipples to hard points beneath the thin fabric before shifting his hand to my shoulders and pulling me closer to him.

I want to forget dinner. Forget the awkward formality of a real "date." I want to slip out of this outfit and let him fuck me right here in this car. I shouldn't have stopped him before. I should have let him take me, because I know that as soon as we're joined I'll forget all these silly worries and remember that this, right now, is perfect.

But Martin is expecting us.

This time Blaine is the one who pulls away first, but I can tell by the lazy curl of his lips and the dark gleam in his eyes that he wants to give into the same urges I do.

"Sorry, I couldn't resist," he says. "I promise I'll be a perfect gentleman at the restaurant."

I nod and sit back against my seat.

It's just a date, I tell myself. I'm just nervous. I bet if I told him, he'd think it was cute.

But somewhere, deep down, I know this isn't just a date, at least not for me. And that's the part that's terrifying.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Even though I have champagne tastes, I really live a lifestyle that fits more of a two-buck-Chuck budget. So when Blaine said we were going out to his former chef's fancy new restaurant, I figured it would be like my life eating at Breadstix where it was the fanciest I could manage on such a tight budget. Blaine's budget isn't what it once was and "fancy" in Manhattan can mean that the table has a candle in the middle and serves food that costs about $20 a plate.

Wrong.

I should have known that Martin could be executive chef at only one of the most luxurious restaurants in all of Manhattan based on his credentials not to mention the delicious meals I had while at the Anderson residence, but I certainly wasn't expecting this. Even when my dad came to New York after my graduation and we enjoyed dinner at a quiet restaurant in the meatpacking district, that still felt like the Times Square McDonalds in comparison to Ventine's.

Ventine's is the place that all luxurious people strive to be seen at and eat at. Though Times Square is only a few miles from this upper east side eatery, it shows no remnants of the beer specials or appetizer specials that many of those restaurants advertise on their dinner menus posted out front. Ventine's is the kind of place that doesn't even post its menu out front because it changes daily and said menu doesn't even have prices listed - which you know means it's going to cost so much that one month's rent might be the ultimate price for eating like a king.

The ambience is dark and modern yet doesn't feel sterile like some modern restaurants do. The linens are freshly laundered without a single splash or stain evident and they've even starched the napkins so they crease just so to form the most elaborate folded creations. The paintings on the wall are modern and look like they're on loan from the Guggenheim (perhaps they are) and everything just oozes Manhattan luxury. It's the kind of place I strive to be and yet would never step inside if I was here of my own volition.

But no, I'm here on a date with Blaine; a first date even. The crowd tonight manages to look even more primed than ever since it's the grand opening and people are decked in cocktail dresses and suits with ties. I feel incredibly underdressed - something that simply does not happen when you're Kurt Hummel - but I can't help but feel slightly out of place already, as if a spotlight is shining on me and the fact that I barely make five figures let alone the six or seven that some of the people in attendance do.

Besides, it's a Wednesday; do these people really have nothing better to do than sip champagne and eat decadent cuisine?

Of course not.

But I would be lying if I said that I wasn't thrilled to be here... and perhaps more than a little jealous. Sure, I admit that my life will never be like this, but that doesn't mean I'm not feeling a little prideful with the fact that I'm here amongst The People to know in Manhattan and on Blaine's arm who looks divine and just as handsome and debonair as ever. He seems unphased by the crowd and its ambience though part of me is curious if he misses this life that he used to lead that was stripped from him due to his father's mishandling of his finances. Rather than dwell on this fact, I smile when Blaine looks my way and he presses softly at my lower back to direct me toward the maître d', who perks at Blaine's presence as if he's the most VIP person in attendance - which I assure you, he isn't.

"Good evening Mr. Anderson, Mr. Hummel," he chirps, acknowledging us individually before taking two menus from beneath his station. "Please, let me escort you to your table."

Blaine keeps his hand at my lower back, gently moving us alongside each other as we bump hips while navigating the restaurant. I squirm away from him slightly as we turn a corner in order to avoid running into a table, but with that space I already yearn to feel the warmth of his hand through my shirt as if he's keeping me together, keeping me in place; as if the touch of his hand is noting that 'yes, we're together.' I might not fit with this crowd of people, but I fit with him.

"Martin promised us the best table in the house," he murmurs as the maître d' sends us deeper into the restaurant. "I told him that you'd settle for nothing less."

I softly slap his chest as his deep chuckle resonates from within and roll my eyes when he does nothing more than smirk in my direction. "Well then, I guess it pays to know the chef with my obnoxious demands," I joke.

The maître d' stops us at a table tucked away in the back of the restaurant; not positioned near the kitchen nor is it near the windows a few steps away. Rather it's a u-shaped booth that allows for the highest level of privacy one can achieve while in a public place. I imagine that on a night where Blaine Anderson isn't demanding its occupancy, it would be a table to host socialites, Hollywood stars, or foreign dignitaries. Tonight it instead hosts a somewhat immodest first date between two men; one of which is used to this level of sophistication, and one who had a $2 Lean Cuisine for lunch.

My eyes focus more on the table as the dim light focuses on a burst of color at the center of the table and I gasp.

Blaine shuffles me to one side of the booth, gesturing for me to slide in. "I almost went with calla lilies," he notes with regard to the arrangement on the table, "but I think these yellow and red roses are more appropriate. They're elegant and classic yet colorful and vibrant; these are Kurt Hummel flowers."

Okay, so maybe this is a fairy tale, or at the very least a dream of which I am sure to wake and be disappointed when I'm in some dingy apartment in outer Brooklyn wearing Hanes boxer briefs and able to hear my neighbors through the flimsy walls.

"They're beautiful," I say, not wanting to break this dream in which I'm living. I lean forward to take in their scent and notice that they're a shorter arrangement that what one would traditionally use for roses.

"I wanted to be sure that we could leave them on the table, but I still wanted to be able to see you and how incredible you look tonight," he says as he lightly taps the tops of the blooms, as if to keep them in their place. My stomach churns delightedly; he thought this through, he planned this. He not only planned this exceedingly romantic date that we're on, but he also thought enough to buy me flowers. Something that normally would be looked at peculiarly with two men, but something Blaine knew I enjoyed from one of our many phone calls after our time at his residence.

I look up quickly at him and can barely hold his gaze. This feels like too much - everything feels like too much - but I don't want to admit that it's everything I ever dreamed of.

Rather than hold his gaze any longer, I look again at the crowd gathered for the grand opening. Seated in the back away from the scuffle gives us more distance from these people, both physically and metaphorically, and I can't help but be reminded again of how this used to be Blaine's world of lavish proportions. I chance a glance over at him and see him sitting in his seat, as if the environment doesn't phase him in the slightest and he looks just as self-assured as ever. He takes a pause from his peek at the menu and meets my gaze, his honeyed eyes seeming darker in the light, or perhaps it's just the way that his eyes work when we're together.

"I hope you trust me," he says, gesturing to the menu that might as well be in webdings. I thought I knew French or at least about French cuisine but clearly Martin - and Blaine - are one step ahead of me.

"Since when was that a good idea?" I joke.

Blaine scoots down the u-shape of the booth and saddles up next to me, our legs grazing ever so slightly as he moves in closer. "I've already arranged the menu for tonight. Martin has been gracious enough to provide excellent recommendations."

I raise an eyebrow. "Already making decisions for me?" Part of the headstrong Kurt Hummel that my father has raised is irritated with the thought of a man making decisions for me, yet the romantic in me is slightly touched at the fact that he planned everything and that it's already more than I could have fathomed.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he says. "I know how you are very independant and like to get things done, but tonight I wanted to take care of you; make you feel taken care of."

Yet again, the romantic in me is practically squealing with joy. After years of feeling like I needed to be the one to act as savior in my romantic relationships, it's nice to not have to bear the burden of caring for my partner or keeping the romance alive. Thankfully, Blaine seems to have taken this upon himself and I couldn't be more thrilled.

God, what is he doing to me? By the end of the night, I'll surely be a whimpering mess of a man eager to eat Reddi Whip from the can and watch chick flicks.

Fortunately I don't need to respond as Martin has now graced us with his presence. The man donning the chefs hat looks happier than ever and seems to be practically bubbling to see Blaine and I. Or maybe it's the fact that his restaurant is opening, but I want to imagine he's just happy to see us.

"Martin!" I exclaim happily. Though I know Blaine misses having him in his life on a daily basis, I can tell that Martin is a lovely man and has cared for Blaine very well.

"Mr. Hummel," he says, reaching out and shaking my hand. "Such a pleasure to see you."

"And thanks for the table Martin," Blaine says from behind my left shoulder. "And congratulations old man, this restaurant looks fantastic."

Matin's grin widens. "Actually, I should be thanking you Mr. Anderson. I'm sorry to say that I can't stay with you longer, but I'm thrilled that you are both here tonight and I hope that you do enjoy. And, I assure you, I will do everything in my power to ensure that this is a perfect evening for you gentlemen."

"I have every confidence that it will be perfect," Blaine says, his hand grazing my thigh as he lingers over the word perfect.

"I hope you two brought your appetites," Martin says, not noticing Blaine's darkened gaze and not able to see how Blaine's hand hasn't stopped caressing my legs under the table. "I have prepared a divine feast and it's all compliments of the chef."

"Oh Martin, you shouldn't-"

"Please, I insist," he says as one of his staff wheels out a chilling bowl for a very expensive bottle of champagne. It's the kind of champagne that rappers praise in their music videos yet in reality they can't really afford to use in production of their music videos since it's at least a thousand dollars a bottle. "Consider it a gift from me," he finishes with a nod before hustling back to the kitchen.

The waiter prepares two crystal flutes for the champagne and I feel dizzy; from the kindness shown by Martin who met me for all of two days, from the champagne as it hits my tongue and I can taste its dry notes alongside the fizz, and from Blaine's hands as they firmly yet calmly continue to make a path along my legs, reaching further in toward the prize between my legs with every touch. It's enough to make a man mad, not that I'm complaining.

"I guess he approves of me," I say as I attempt to take a nonchalant sip from the champagne flute, Blaine's left hand finally reaching out for his own flute while his other hand remains occupied.

"The very first night he saw you he said he expected to see more of you," Blaine said simply. I glance at him to see that he's sipping on the champagne in his glass yet his eyes remain on me.

"You're just teasing me," I say.

"Not at all. Sometimes I think Martin knows me better than I know myself. He has known me my whole life after all. And I was also hoping he wasn't wrong about you."

I can't respond to anything like that, not when my brain is struggling to function let alone respond to something like that.

"I think I've achieved a new record," he says. "Fifteen minutes into our date and I've already got you speechless."

In spite of myself, I feel my flush deepen. I want to blame it on the alcohol but I know better. "I'm trying to maintain a modicum of humility."

He releases his touch from my leg and drapes his right arm over my shoulders, pulling me in closer and causing his nose to brush against my hair. I stiffen slightly but only because I'm so acutely aware of his presence that I'm tangled emotionally.

"I like that I make you nervous, that I make you feel things," he whispers softly, hairs rising on my neck in response.

I wouldn't say that he makes me nervous but he certainly does make me feel things. But if I don't change the subject I really will turn into a pile of goo and that's so not attractive on a first date.

"What did Martin mean when he said he should be thanking you?" I ask.

Blaine leans back slightly, our proximity not as close as a moment before and my mind is both furious and thankful for the space. "It was nothing. I had a few connections in the industry and I recommended him to a few venture capitalists who I knew were looking for someone just like him. It was luck, really."

"He seems excited."

"He's thrilled," Blaine states. "I talked to him earlier this week and he was practically bursting with excitement. He had a few more tweaks to oversee, but you could practically feel the joy oozing from his body. And he's worked in restaurants before so I knew that he had the chops to handle it, but I think it's been great for him to be more creative with his food and be able to strive for the Michelin stars on his own. You know he used to work for a Michelin star restaurant before my father asked him to join us?" The last note comes out with a hint of sadness, whether for his father's absence or the fact that deep down Blaine resents his father for potentially stealing Martin's dream in order to live within the lifestyle he couldn't actually afford.

I frown. "You don't think that your father forced him to leave that restaurant, do you?"

He shakes his head. "Not forced, but I know how persuasive my father could be. But it makes me wonder how much more Martin could have now if he hadn't left the industry to work for a private residence. He could be as big as Mario Batali but for French food. He could even have a spot on Food Network."

I quirked a brow. "Can you really imagine Martin being on Food Network? I'm trying to imagine him on something like Chopped as a host - he'd feel so guilty for giving any form of negative criticism to contestants. He's such a sweetheart."

Blaine smiles slightly at that thought. "I suppose you're right. But I do think that he could have had more, but I guess we'll never know."

"I don't think Martin regrets working for your family, Blaine," I say. "He could have walked away; it's not like your father had him chained in your basement or anything. But he chose to stay. And besides, he seems really happy tonight. Isn't that enough?" Deep down, part of me feels that Martin stayed that long because he loved the Andersons, but I don't know if that will reassure Blaine or set him over the edge. Blaine has strength beyond compare, especially for someone experiencing such drastic life changes as he is, but I can tell that the armor around his heart is slowly cracking and before long he'll break.

He reaches for my hand and his thumb skims across the back of mine. I hope that he finds some level of peace with what I've said - I staunchly believe them to be true - but I'm hesitant with how far to go with Blaine noting how our relationship is functioning at the moment. I look at him expectantly, hoping for a smile or some reassurance behind his eyes, but I get nothing; he's not even looking at me anymore.

"Blaine," I say, giving his hand a squeeze. He looks at me then and the look on his face breaks my heart. I'm thankful that I didn't press the issue further because he looks so - troubled. When he and I would talk on the phone, we would talk mostly about our lives and how busy we were and happy moments from the past and present. We didn't divulge into deeper topics - my father's previous illnesses, his father's financial struggles, my mom's death, his brother's practical disappearance in the wake of their family tragedy - but it looks like one sentence could be the final straw to break the camel's back.

The closest we've come to talking about Blaine's past and the shifts in his life were when he and I walked through his former home a few weeks ago. I held his hand as he shared stories of he and Cooper, of his relationship with his mother before she died, of how his father lived while he was there. It was almost as if he was saying goodbye to that - to that life, to those people - and trying to move on. It was enough to break a weaker man, but Blaine was resilient - at least he was to a point. It's one thing to lend an ear and listen and quite another when you're trying to think of ways to know what to do or say when someone experiences that level of loss. I can't even begin to understand what he's feeling aside from the illnesses and deaths in my own family, but I've never felt the level of despair I can tell is simmering beneath the surface.

There was a slight amount of interest in Blaine and his family upon his father's death, but ever since I feel like Blaine has been left alone to bear the burden. For a while, he had Martin and then I suppose I showed up as well, but he hasn't had a consistent level of support from anyone since his father has passed. Even with my father thousands of miles away and Will acting like a father every now and again, I always feel some level of support from my friends and family. Blaine doesn't; he's a lone wolf and it breaks my heart.

But what's worse is that only the tip of the iceberg of the Anderson family drama has come to the surface. Though his death was publicized in the papers, the news of the family's money (or lack thereof) has managed to stay quiet. I imagine that this is due to the attorneys the Andersons have on retainer - likely the next thing to fall from the flock with the money problems - but it somehow hasn't made it public. Instead, Blaine (and his attorneys) are quietly ending their debts and obligations and no one has managed to crack the case yet.

And despite this hardship, I can't do anything. The only thing I can do is offer myself - a hand to hold, an ear to listen, a shoulder to lean on - and hope that one day it'll be enough. I slide my fingers through his and clutch our hands together, hoping to share a piece of my peace through osmosis and just through our simple contact. But soon I remove my hand from his and slide my hand slowly up his leg, mirroring what he had done earlier that evening. His eyes widen with my movements but then I see the flicker of the Blaine I've come to know come to life; the glimmer in his eyes and the small yet somewhat wicked smile gracing his face.

He stops my hand before it can hit his waist. "Be careful," he says, voice just above a whisper. "If you get me worked up we won't make it past the appetizers."

"Sounds like a challenge," I say as coolly as possible, slight excitement bubbling beneath my skin.

"Don't tempt me." His fingers slide over my leg, the tips nearing the bulge in my pants, which I now remember is no longer concealed by any underwear since Blaine has mine in his possession. "Or I'll have you moaning right here in the restaurant."

His hand doesn't even need to go beneath the surface of my pants, the touch is enough to set me aflame. Even if he wasn't touching me, the promise of his words would arouse me and I shift as the bulge in my pants becomes more noticeable, thank god for the table obscuring my arousal from view. I have no doubt that Blaine would love to watch me come while at this five star restaurant and admittedly there's something exciting about getting off in public.

"Well," he says, taking a firmer hand around the outline of my cock. I gasp with the touch. "Would you like to play a game? See how quietly you can come in the middle of this restaurant?"

I doubt it would take much at this point, though I would have to muster enough brain power to ask him to at least lower my pants some; semen is a bitch to get out of blended wool.

I probably would have left him too, but the overeager waiter arrives at our table with plates full of appetizers. His hand lets go but shifts to my inner thigh and I can feel myself getting more turned on despite their presence muddling our perfect privacy. He has me at an advantage, blubbering with the amount of romance running through my veins and the heat radiating from my crotch with his touch, not to mention the fact that he still has my underwear in his jacket and god, if that doesn't somehow make this all hotter. He could easily unzip the fly of my pants and barely shove his hand down; the lightest of touch and pressure and the skin-on-skin contact could be enough to have me coming right on top of this French confection atop our table.

I have to bite down on my lip to keep from moaning when his finger just barely grazes the underside of my length and I can practically feel his mouth twitch with victory at my reaction. I can feel the precome beading at my tip now and if he isn't careful soon my lap will be wet with something I do not want to explain to my dry cleaner.

"All right, all right," I say the second the waiter has left our presence. "I forfeit, I lose."

He grins with victory. "If we were anywhere but in Martin's restaurant, you'd be in trouble; I wouldn't have stopped just because you called 'uncle.'"

I don't doubt that he would have kept on, he loves to see me squirm. He removes his hands from my lap but I watch as he takes a finger and brings it to his lips. My brow quirks curiously before I realize this must have been the finger that was teasing my dick; the one he is now sucking on fervently while giving me bedroom eyes like I've never seen before.

"Delicious."

Holy. Shit.

My whole existence is on fire. I want to look away, but I can't stop myself from watching how Blaine's tongue is lapping around the tip of his finger, poking out temptingly while I stare at him stupefied. By the time he relinquishes his finger from his mouth I'm surprised I'm still breathing.

Thankfully the food is a welcome distraction and my stomach rumbles as I glance at the food placed before us. If this is just the appetizer, I know Martin wasn't kidding when he noted that we were in for a feast. The waiter has brought over steamed mussels, salmon and asparagus bouchées, stuffed figs, prosciutto-wrapped prawns; my stomach and my mouth are pleased with this bounty.

Rather than diving into the food, Blaine lifts his champagne flute. "A toast," he says. "To tonight."

I lift my own. "To Martin, on his new adventure. And for providing us with such a fine feast."

"And to us," Blaine says as his eyes pierce mine over the rim of his glass. "May this date be the first of many."

I can tell I'm blushing - and once again, not because of the champagne - as Blaine takes a sip from the flute. He continues to look at me while I take my own gulp of the sweet drink, the bubbles against my lips seeming to match the look Blaine is giving them. The intensity of this night - of Blaine, of this feast, of this kindness, of everything - once again hits me like a freight train. It's more, so much more than I ever imagined and I feel overwhelmed with it all.

As the dinner progresses, this feeling only continues. Course after course are laid before us and Blaine seems to emit nothing but endless praises, sweet confessions, and heated looks that keep me hot with want. I can feel myself falling under Blaine's spell, his presence and his eyes only further bringing me in. The few phone conversations we've had over the past few weeks are nothing in comparison to the feeling of sitting next to him, his warmth at my side, the softest amusement in his tone when we talk about silly things, the way in which his lips move when he talks or the way his expression shifts to darkened want to joyous light as the conversation topics shift. To have him close is… more. More than I could have ever dreamed but something I only want more and more.

And now that we've calmed down from our little sexy game from before, I realize that we're doing something I never thought possible - we're doing this whole "relationship" thing, and it could actually work.

By the time our entrees arrive, we're no longer chatting about the weather or the shenanigans the kids at been up to at the Center. Over a plate of roasted duck with a spicy apricot glaze, I update Blaine more on the ins and outs of the Center and our new fundraising efforts. I try to keep it light and not allude to the continuing money troubles we're having, but focus on new donors and how our increased awareness in the community seems to be having a good impact on our bottom line. Yet even though I spin with the positive, I can see a hint of sadness lingering in Blaine's eyes.

"I'm sorry," I say when I realize I've been spouting about the Center for what seems like the whole course. "I didn't mean to dominate the conversation."

"You're not."

"I've been talking for at least the past fifteen minutes."

"I don't mind. I could listen to you talk about the Center all day. Your whole face lights up."

I feel like it's a convincing lie. He wants to bring attention to me and how happy I am while deterring from the fact that he's not okay and he's sitting in silence likely because he has a lot brewing behind those brown eyes of his. How can I go on about the Center when he can only remember that topic of conversation as strained because he had to renege on his family's contributions to our efforts?

"What about you?" I ask him with an attempt to change the subject. "What have you been up to since we last spoke?"

"Nothing interesting, I'm afraid. Still dealing with some lingering financial circumstances." He takes a sip of the water the waiter brought out with this course. "Tim - my family's financial advisor - says I have a knack for numbers. Though I suspect he's only saying so with hopes that I'll take his advice, unlike my father who apparently didn't listen very well. I still can't quite believe things got as bad as they did." His face is dark and gloomy again and I'm instantly regretting shifting the subject. I don't want to bring Blaine any pain, especially not on our date, but I can't seem to avoid it no matter how I approach things.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."

"Don't apologize," he says, pointedly ignoring my eyes. "Honestly if you take away the fact that I'm trying to repair the damage caused, I actually enjoy the work itself. It brings a sense of achievement to solve a problem and find creative yet legal ways to fix this. It's productive." He glances over at me with a tight smile. "This isn't really first date conversation, is it?"

I don't want to discourage him from talking about it. He only opens up every so often that I don't want to shut him down while he's on a roll. I've been worried about him and how he keeps things bottled up, but before I can encourage him to talk with me more about his thoughts, he's moved on to lighter topics - specifically praising the food we've eaten.

As I'm about to take another bite, a call comes in to Blaine's cell phone, just as the waiter is bringing another gratis bottle of wine to the table. Blaine looks sheepish as he pulls the phone from his pocket.

"I'm so sorry, I thought I'd turned this off," but his thumb hesitates over the Ignore button and he frowns.

"What is it?"

"Forgive me, Kurt. I don't want to take this while we're having such a lovely time, but do you mind if I…?"

"Go ahead," I say.

He nods and answers the call while he steps away from the table. Normally if this were an actual first date where I barely know the guy, he'd get points off for fiddling with his phone let alone taking a call while we're eating. But it's Blaine so he gets a pass. Naturally. I watch his retreating form as he weaves through the dining room, back toward the restaurant entrance, then I take up my fork and grab another piece of duck. I pick around the various plates of food, trying a little bit of everything as I wait. But as the minutes tick by and Blaine still doesn't return, I start to get a little antsy.

He probably doesn't want to talk about his family's financial problems in front of a room of people. He barely wants to mention it around me let alone in somewhere more public. Though he's on a busy Manhattan street at the moment, there's hardly any lingerers who'll be listening in on the conversation. I refuse to fault him for a little privacy, he deserves it.

But with him gone, I can't help but keep a look out for him, anxious for him to return to our date. I have had one guy walk out on a date with me, though I hardly imagine Blaine would do something like that. That doesn't mean I don't relax with relief when I see Blaine headed back toward our table.

He looks a bit tenser than when he left, unfocused like he's running through something in his head. When he reaches the table and notices me looking at him curiously, he smiles down at me in my seat. "I'm sorry about that," he says, sliding in on the other side of the table yet nuzzling up right next to me in the same spot where he had sat before. "I'll make it up to you, I promise," he adds with a kiss to the lips.

I reel from the kiss. "You better," I joke. His smile widens but its still not a real Blaine smile. I've seen my share of those despite the limited amount of time that we've known each other but I know better. "Is everything alright?" I ask, resting my hand on his on the table top.

"Of course," he says quickly, dismissively. "It was just Tim. Had a few follow ups for me." He's being vague on purpose and even though I respect him for dealing with his life in his own way, I hate that he's keeping it all to himself.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"It's nothing, I assure you. And it's certainly not anything worth ruining our evening," he says, pulling my hand to his mouth and gently kissing my fingers. It's such a Don Juan thing to do, but I love the attention. Though not enough to put his worries to the back of my mind.

I really want to believe him but as the date continues he remains somewhat distant. Blaine has always been a private man, but now he's bordering of grossly quiet and almost impolite with the level of platonic talk we're exchanging. We're back to exchanging pleasantries and limited conversation even though I can tell he's trying too hard to keep an indifferent look on his face. There's a formality in his response and I can tell it's a curated reply from his years at private school and it's something I find rather infuriating at the moment.

He's still sweet, complementary and charming but he's not Blaine; at least not the Blaine I've grown fond of. Something has shifted between us and I don't know what to do. But I'll try whatever I can. "You have to taste this," I say, holding up my fork to his lips. "It's divine."

Blaine plays along and opens his mouth for my fork. His eyes don't leave mine and his intent gaze brings back the goosebumps that I felt from earlier in our date. Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea.

"Are you sure everything's okay?" I ask again when Blaine's eyes seem more alight and he's at least making eye contact with me.

"Of course, I've just had a lot on my mind recently. But I don't want to think about any of that now. I'm here with you and I want to focus on you and now, okay?" he says, reaching again for my hand that's been in my lap ever since Blaine's behavior changed. He lifts my hand to his lips once again and presses a soft kiss to my palm.

I smile at him, but despite his best attempts to squash my curiosity and concern, I still feel a little uneasy. Blaine's demeanor has changed and it's likely as a result of the conversation he had with Tim. But I resign myself to not thinking about the conversation with Tim or the fact that Blaine is but a whisper of his usual, dark, allusive self and try to mirror Blaine's focus on the here and now and us. Even if he never wants to talk to me about his troubles, maybe I can be his oasis - a distraction and someone who he can relax with and maybe, one day, he'll want to get it out and share. But for now I'm content to just be there and have a few moments stolen away with him to help him relax.

By the time dinner is over and he's driving me back to my car - still parked at the Center - I feel better with my position in our relationship. In typical Kurt Hummel fashion, I got a little swept away and put too much pressure on Blaine - both in my mind and with my constant badgering. I was nice about it, but if he's not ready he's not and I have to be okay with it. Even with the few hiccups, I had an amazing time tonight and I'm looking forward to showing Blaine my utmost gratitude for our evening.

He insists on following me in his car back to my apartment and "walking me to my door." Please, I may not have had as many men as Blaine, but I know that's code for 'he wants the d.' (And I do give good d, I must say). The entire drive I can only think about what I'm going to do to him and what kinds of supplies I have stashed in my apartment. I want to taste him, tease him, swallow him, touch him. Besides, I have to get back at him for keeping my underwear in his pocket all night. Kurt Hummel may not be a fan of underwear lines but he certainly doesn't go commando on the regular.

When we near my apartment building and Blaine finds a parking spot on the street in front of my place, the butterflies return to my stomach. Why am I so nervous? It's not like we haven't already been down this path many, many, many times before. As Blaine catches up with me on my front stoop, Blaine seems nervous too. His hand curls and uncurls in tight fists and he seems a little twitchy as he waits for me to Why would Blaine be nervous? He's a wanton sex god, he does not need to worry about my opinion of him; I'm more worried that I'll come the second he takes my pants off. Have years of dealing with that uncomfortable post-date will-he-or-won't-he dance at the door conditioned me to expect the worst?

"So," I say, trying to ease my nerves. "Should I be worried that you'll sleep with me on the first date and never call?"

He takes the joke well and his free hand moves to my waist as I push the outer door open and move into the hallway. My hands are rattling with the keys as the rush of wantnowsexplease filters through me in rapid succession. We reach my door and he turns to face me. Blaine looks like he wants to say something but he just ends up staring at me darkly. He takes a glance at my lips before quickly looking away and practically boring a hole into my forehead.

Time to nip that shit in the bud.

I push myself closer to him and grab the front lapels of his jacket before forcefully placing a kiss on his lips. He gets over the initial shock quickly and eagerly returns the kiss, a moaned hum releasing from his lips as his hands reach down my back toward my ass and my lips pry open, our tongues eager to seek each other's.

Before I can even catch a breath, he's moved—forcing me back against the door, trapping me beneath his body. His hands run up and down my hips, my waist, my awakening cock. Any awkwardness I feel disappears with his touch; with the heat of him, the taste of him, the smell of him. This is how we connect, how we communicate—through our bodies. I know everything he can't say, and he glass of champagne.

I reach up and go for the buttons on his shirt, pulling them apart one by one. He begins to tug the fabric of my shirt up past my hips, and I hear myself moan in anticipation of his touch against my bare flesh.

He pauses. I've reached the last button on his shirt, but in my excitement my fingers are fumbling.

"Wait," he says, his hands closing around mine.

"It's a quiet building," I lie. It's New York, well Brooklyn; nothing is ever quiet. But relative to most of New York, it is quiet and it's also a Wednesday night, most people will have already turned in for the evening. "Everyone else is probably in bed already."

But Blaine shakes his head. "That's not what I mean."

I can barely contain my excitement now, both physically and mentally, and Blaine's stop sign just threw me for a loop. "I don't understand."

He lets out a long, shaky breath—in that way people do before they tell you something they know you won't want to hear. Something clenches in my stomach.

"What is it?" I prompt.

"Kurt," he says slowly. "I was thinking, back in the car… Maybe we should slow things down for a bit."

There it is. Like a punch to my gut. I suddenly feel like I can't breathe, but I don't want him to see how much of a shock his words are to me.

"What do you mean by 'slow things down'?" I ask, impressing myself with how calm, how emotionless my voice sounds. I am known to bring new levels of drama, but I'm really surprising myself with how well contained I'm keeping my emotions. The thoughts of romance and Mr-and-Mr are now fleeting as I imagine my life without a Blaine, without this closeness and his physical presence and I'm resigning myself to owning a billion cats and maybe a dog and god this is The Talk; the break up.

He's studying my face closely, I can feel it, but I don't dare look him in the eye. "Maybe…" he says. "Maybe we should just try dating for a little while. No sex."

No. Sex.

It takes my brain a moment to process what he's suggesting. "Why?"

"I just don't want us to get in over our heads," he says.

I finally summon the nerve to look up at him, and when I do, he's raking his hand through his hair. He's having trouble looking at me.

"I still want to see you and go on dates with you but maybe we slow down physically. Is that okay?" he says. "I think it might be good for us. Think of it as a game."

A game? God what is it with Blaine and these damn games? And really? Good for us? I'm not sure how to interpret that, but I'm afraid to ask.

"All right," I agree, because I'm not sure what else to say. "Just dating, no sex."

He smiles, but it's a small smile, as if he's still uncertain at my response—or is he uncertain about his own suggestion? I've dated enough to know that one partner wanting "slow things down" is never a good thing.

But I won't argue with him here. I won't let him see how much his words have hurt me. I will wait until I'm inside my apartment and sequestered with The Notebook and a giant vat of ice cream to soothe me. "In that case," I say, "I guess this is goodnight."

He nods. I can't read the expression in his eyes—is that regret?—but I'm not sure I want to know the truth. I turn and unlock the door with shaking hands. His eyes bore into my back, but he doesn't try to stop me.

"Goodnight, Kurt," he says as I retreat inside the apartment.

I stand by the door long after I've closed it, hoping, in my pathetic little heart, that he'll change his mind. That he'll come back and knock on my door and tell me it was all some sick joke.

But he doesn't.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry, this isn't proofread, I'll check it out soon and make sure everything is in a row. Enjoy (and please review and share the love!)_


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

"Something must be wrong if you're this distracted," Morgan says as I shuffle my empty coffee cup from one side of the table to the other.

She and I had set up this meeting to go over the supplies we needed for some upcoming classes, yet I've spent at least the past five minutes barely comprehending any words coming from her mouth. I can't even think of the name of the classes she's teaching next week for that matter.

"I'm fine," I assure her as the coffee cup once again moves in my hands. Though we're meeting in my office, I can barely notice the environment when my brain is so muddled.

She leans forward in the seat opposite my desk and leans in conspiratorially. "Problems with Mr. McHotty Rich Pants who was in here last week? I can't see how you'd have issues when noting how tight that ass looked in those pants."

Much to my chagrin, I had indeed told Morgan about my date with Blaine - though now I'm regretting it. She knew she recognized him from somewhere but once I gave her his name, she took with it and ran - asking for details, both minute and broad, about Blaine, our date, how we met. She wanted to know everything; literally everything. I hadn't told her the whole story - I'm not a total idiot. I most definitely did not tell her about the sex games with Blaine and how he fucked me within an inch of my life and how much I loved every second of his wicked yet satisfying torture. And I most certainly did not tell her about the abrupt, sexless way our date had ended the other night, I could barely come to grips with it on my own.

I mean, come on. I gave the man my underwear and sat in a restaurant with him where he teased my cock under the table and yet he walked away with barely a goodnight's kiss. What the hell happened? What could have possibly happened on that call that would have flipped a switch in Blaine so drastic that he would turn down sex… with me. I know I'm a good lay, he also knows I am - so what the fuck? And it's not like I would have resisted him anyway, it would have been easy; hell, I would have been easy, and that's not something I like to admit readily.

"Everything is fine with us," I partially lie to Morgan. I try to not think about it very much - about the sexual cold shoulder - but that, of course, only makes me think about it more. But I've convinced myself that maybe he's right; maybe it's a good idea to slow things down so we can have a normal relationship and date first and sleep together later and maybe, one day, even love each other?

Though this not sex thing is fucking dumb. A dude's got needs.

Whatever his reason, I can't dwell on it. So instead of think of Blaine and how my right hand is becoming far too familiar with my anatomy for my liking, I throw myself into my work and try to forge forward with the classes we're working on and the new developments with the new business plan for the Center.

I finally am able to focus enough to find the list of materials Morgan had dropped off at my desk earlier this week, but she's already noticed my distraction enough to speak to it further.

"He hasn't called you, has he?"

I also can't think about that - Blaine's silence and lack of communication with him in general since his hasty departure. I want to assume that he's not calling because he's busy and because he's trying to piece his life together. And besides, we're both very independent men, it's not like we rely on each other for solace or anything. And we're not even an official couple anyway.

Christ, I'm a mess.

Morgan leans further across the desk and grabs my arm. "Kurt, please. You went out with Blaine-fucking-Anderson. You're the only one of us having anything exciting happen in the romance department so please, please let me live vicariously through you."

Morgan herself is getting married in the spring. She's in full on wedding mode - and hosting her bridal luncheon at the Center - but I can tell part of her misses her "hen days" when she and the girls could go out and pick up men. Whereas she misses it, I hate it and am perfectly content to live a life of solitude if it wasn't for the fact that I liked to have sex way too much. That and since Morgan moved to the outer parts of the borough, she's eager for new friends since most of hers live in Manhattan and hate taking a cab - or worse the MTA - out to Canarsie. And I'd be lying if I said I had a lot of friends. I don't and I'm pretty okay with that; most of my friends and support are back in Ohio but I rather like having my local friends and family manifested in the people who work at the Center.

"Come on," Morgan says, goading me further for details. "Wait, was he bad in bed? Oh god, does he have a small dick? Or if you're more likely the one to top, does he-"

"What? No! No, of course not, he's great and his dick is… fine. More than fine," I say, muttering the last part under my breath.

"Ah, so you have slept with him. Trish owes me twenty bucks."

Dammit, I hadn't mentioned that whole sleeping together thing to her. That sneaky bitch.

"No, I mean I-" I can tell I'm blushing. I do not want to talk about this now, at all, ever.

"You have! I knew it!"

"Morgan, please, I-"

"Are we interrupting something?" Will says as he appears in my doorway. Thank god for the boss.

"No, Morgan and I were just going over the materials list for next week. She's on her way," I say, the last part a bit harsher than I intended though I am thankful that the subject is killed for the moment. Morgan shoots me a glare over Will's shoulder as she leaves the room telling me that the subject is certainly not over for discussion and I only then notice that Will isn't alone; he has a man I've never seen before in his company.

"If you have a minute Kurt, I wanted to introduce you to Asher Julian. He's from the Intown Voice. He's writing a piece on us and he wanted to speak with you noting your accomplishments in turning this place around," Will says, gesturing to Mr. Julian.

I look at Asher Julian as he extends his hand toward mine. He's the same height as me, maybe taller, with sandy brown hair and kind brown eyes. His smile wrinkles a bit at the corners to highlight small dimples on his cheeks. If I had to guess, I'd say he's a few years older than me - early thirties - but he has a boyish quality in his smile. He's dressed casually but smartly in fitted chinos and a gingham button up shirt with a tweed coat slung over his arm. He's confident enough in his clothing that he's power clashing - multiple patterns on top of each other without clashing - and immediately my gay-dar goes off. No straight man can clash patterns that well; it tends to be pinstripes with plaid and… no.

"You want to write a piece… on us?" I ask, gesturing between Will and I.

"On the Center," Will clarifies. "On all of the changes you have implemented in the past few months."

"I hardly implemented them on my own," I say meekly.

"Will has told me otherwise, he says that you're the genius behind the slight rebrand in your services and credits you with much of the recent influx of donations that you're seeing," Mr. Julian says. I hesitantly shake his hand after I realize it's been held out for me for far longer than socially acceptable. And I can't help but note how firm his handshake is and how he doesn't look away from my eyes upon our contact.

"A pleasure to meet you," he says, all while his eyes maintain their focus on me.

"Likewise Mr. Julian."

"Please, call me Asher. I'm barely older than you, I hardly want to be reminded of the fact that I'm turning into an old man," he says with a chuckle. "I must admit, I admire the work you and Mr. Schuester have been doing. I believe this place is truly an asset to Cenarsie and Brooklyn proper and I think a lot of people should hear your story. At the very least, I hope it'll bring more awareness to your cause. We could use more awareness for the importance of the arts in our community and, more specifically, who's already here providing such excellent services."

Okay, this guy definitely knows how to butter us up. No wonder Will's beaming. This sounds like an amazing opportunity, but still, I'm a little wary.

I know how journalists can be - Adam was one and that clearly did not end out too well. Journalists can be smarmy and slick and will say almost anything to get a story. And rarely will they write stories that don't benefit them personally. When Adam and I were still a thing I asked him to write a small piece in the paper about the Center; nothing out of hand, just a blurb in the community events section about an upcoming art class we had that was free and open to the public. Adam laughed and kissed me on the cheek and said that even though he'd love to ask them to include the mention, the section editor wouldn't mention "an organization so small when all of Manhattan has to be covered." I know that New York is an endless pit of activities and things to do - not to mention the fact that what I was asking for wasn't directly under his jurisdiction - but the way in which he said we weren't worthy stung.

And of course once we started struggling with more than awareness in Brooklyn, few newspapers or writers were willing to help out the small community center in outer Brooklyn. Rather than send a reporter or photographer, they'd send their advertising rates or send an automatic email response about how they were not taking any inquiries or stories at this time.

I want to ask Asher where he was when we had reached out to the newspapers for assistance months ago, but I knew better than to turn him away despite my hesitation. We still needed the help as fundraising was hardly at the level it was when we were at 100% fulfillment of contributions and if I was going to pour myself into my work, I also had to play nice and take whatever minuscule handouts we could get from the public.

And even Asher's paper might not do much for us exposure wise; the Intown Voice is a small local paper which is distributed for free outside of coffee shops and independent bookstores. But any publicity is good publicity, right?  
"What kinds of questions do you have?" I ask pleasantly.

"I've already given him the basics about how I started the programs here and how we've changed over the past few years. But he's really interested in the changes we've made recently and I figured since you were the one who ultimately was behind the changes, I figured he should talk to you about it," Will says, practically passing Asher off on me. I know Will is busy and he's thankful for the news stories, but I can tell he has a billion other things to do and me helping him with this will help him put out fires elsewhere. "Besides, Kurt here is far more photogenic than I am, I mean, look at that bone structure."

I can't help but blush. Will hardly ever speaks about me like that, but when he does I can tell he means well… or he's trying to set me up. Neither of which really works for me… ever.

"I'll be right next door," Will says leaving me in the room with Asher, the ever smiling reporter.

I take a deep breath, hoping that I can be "on" enough to maintain a professional front when my brain feels so frazzled. "So, what is it you want to know?"

"It's not an interrogation, I assure you. And I'll try to keep this brief, I know you have plenty of children out there eager to spend time with Mr. Kurt," he says, pulling a digital recorder from his coat pocket.

I realize that I'm trying a little too hard and my words may appear strained so I try to soften my smile and comply with his request. "I'm sorry if I seem uninterested. It's just been a madhouse around here this morning and I'm afraid I've not always had the best luck with journalists in the past. I do want to help the Center though and am thankful you've taken notice of our little slice of paradise."

"Ah, yes. Will told me that you used to date Adam Crawford. Can't say that I know him, but I know of him."

Damn Will, that stupid meddler.

"I always thought he was a bit pretentious," he says, leaning in and practically whispering, as if we're sharing a piece of gossip rather than a precursor to an interview about the Center. I can't help but be surprised and Asher notices. "Don't worry, any thoughts either of us have about Mr. Crawford will stay off the record."

I can't help but smile at his joke. "That's good to know."

He smiles and gestures for me to take my seat behind my desk as he moves to the seat Morgan had just occupied. He crosses his legs and places the recorder on the table. "You ready?"

I nod. "Sure thing. Ask away Mr. Julian, I'm sorry, Asher."

He chuckles. "Don't think of this as a formal interview," he says, leaning forward to adjust the recorder on the desk. "I really do love this place. I can tell that you - and Will - have poured a lot into this place."

"Thank you," I say sheepishly. "We try to put everything we can into the Center to make it the place where kids in the community - and their families - can feel at home."

"It shows," he notes, flashing me a charming smile. If I didn't find his demeanor so… slick… I might be a bit more flattered with his notion. "What brought you to Brooklyn, and specifically, to the Center?"

I spend the next half hour talking about my adventure from Ohio to Manhattan for school and then finding this Center through an externship program and just falling in love with the mission and the community it serves. I tell him about how I admired Will's dedication to this place and how I feel like I've come into my adulthood working here. I can say I became a man out here in Brooklyn and working at the Center is partially to thank for this change in me.

Asher smiles at me encouragingly as I speak, sometimes asking for more details or laughing when I mention one particular child who I have lovingly started calling Big Boo since he reminds me of the character from Orange is the New Black. I could go on forever about the ins and outs of the Center and how much it means to me - to us, to our community - and Asher seems willing to let me do so.

At one point he walks around to the bulletin board full of pictures of me with the art classes; the same bulletin board that Blaine stood in front of only a few days before.

"You look so happy with the kids," he says, pointing at one particular picture where I'm smiling an open mouthed smile with some sort of horn attached to my forehead like a unicorn.

"I was happy," I say, thinking back to that particular class. "I am happy - I'd do anything for this place."

"I don't doubt it," he replied almost reverently.

I glance over at him. We're practically touching, shoulders just a few inches apart. With the proximity I can see the fine freckles laden on his tanned skin.

"It's rare to find someone with so much passion… for their work," he adds on quickly, his voice thick with apparent admiration. "I would know."

I start to feel a blush coming on, so I chuckle and turn away. "As I said, I feel like I've spent my whole adulthood here. How couldn't I be passionate about it?"

"Tell me about your latest efforts," he says, shifting the conversation back to the Center and less so on me. "Will said it was your idea to start renting out the gallery space for events."

"Well, I mean, I suggested it, but he was the one who really got behind implementing it and making the changes necessary to have it actually happen."

"That's not what he says," Asher says quickly. "He says you practically spearheaded the whole thing and he just backed you up."

I shrug. "I just did what I felt I could do to help the Center stay alive. He has so much going on and manages to much of our program here that it was the smallest way I could help out."

Asher leans toward me as I lean back on my desk. "You know, Kurt, modesty is a fine quality but it's not helping me with this story."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be-"

He chuckles. "I don't mean it in a bad way. But you've hardly talked at all about how you've managed to have any impact on this place that you care so much about when it's evident to your co-workers and even to me - a lowly reporter - that you've had as much of an impact on it as it has on you." Now I can tell I'm blushing full force and it doesn't help that Asher's proximity is getting closer. "It's really quite… charming."

Wait, is he flirting with me? Sure, I can tell the guy is gay, but is he really flirting with me in the middle of an interview not to mention recording what he's saying? He flashes me another broad smile before returning the the chair he had been sitting in.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he says in a professional tone. "I won't force you to brag, but maybe we can talk more about the situation that caused you to think of renting out the gallery in the first place. Will mentioned that the Center has experienced some… hardships as of late."

I take a deep breath and speak to the decline in donations, the cutbacks we implemented to spare as many of the programs as possible, the way in which we've tried to subsidize costs to those in the community while still providing a Living Wage to our few employees. Asher must be getting what he needs since all he does is nod as I speak.

"Will also mentioned that one major donation fell through which was the straw that broke the camel's back," Asher leads.

I had to figure that Will would have alluded to the Anderson pledge falling off our books. I have to be careful with what I say here. If I learned anything from Adam, I have to know that quotes can quite often be taken out of context so my words will have to be few and well chosen.

"Sometimes pledges are broken and we have to make do. It happens to all nonprofits and we were not immune."

"But it was a very large pledge from a very well known, wealthy family."

I have to force myself to remain stoic. "We don't know the circumstances surrounding the decision." That was sort of true - we in the larger, corporate sense didn't but I obviously knew that Blaine had troubles though even I didn't know how deep they ran.

"You don't think they owe you an explanation from having to renege that much money?"

I shift uncomfortably. "I'm not in a place to judge them. They don't owe us anything."

"Not even an apology?"

"We received an apology."

"Really?" he questions. "Will says you haven't."

Shit. I should have been more careful. But with the banter with Asher I forgot that the letter was pointedly directed to me and not to the organization at large. Of course Blaine apologized - even if it was a shitty one that I resented for a long time - but he did apologize. But Will doesn't know that. And I certainly can't explain this to Asher without prompting further questions.

Time to change my tone.

"I like to think that it's made us stronger as an organization - more independent in a time where finances are being carefully budgeted by the public and one where federal and state funding is limited in the wake of budget cuts." It sounds good and it must be good enough for Asher to let it lie.

Instead he stands up from the chair, throws on his sportcoat and gestures to a small display of paintings I hung on my wall from my last art class. "Would you mind if I took a few pictures of you with the artwork? A few of you in here amongst your treasured art pieces and maybe a few more in the gallery? And anywhere else noteworthy on the property to give some perspective on the breadth of your facility and offerings."

"Of course," I say, wishing I was in something a bit more flattering than a fitted black t-shirt and a pair of chinos - not the ones I would normally wear that are a bit tighter, but the ones I can wear comfortably while crouching and playing with the kids.

He pulls out his camera as I quickly run my fingers through my hair.

"You look great, I wouldn't lie about that," he says, hiding behind the lens of the camera.

I stand somewhat awkwardly in front of the paintings and Asher takes a few shots. "No need to worry Kurt, it's not like this is Vogue."

I can't help but laugh and he takes another shot. "Perfect. Just… perfect," he says, looking at the display of his camera.

We head to the gallery next - me still feeling a bit shy after the photo session in my office - and then to a couple of the classrooms that are currently occupied with students and the dreaded Morgan.

"Are you sure you don't want any with Will? I can go get him from-"

"That won't be necessary," he says as he scrolls through the pictures he'd just taken. "Besides, as much as I hate to admit it, he's right. You're a far better photograph next to the headline than he is. I mean, what is with that ramen hair thing?"

I can't help but laugh. "Well, that and he doesn't have an ass like mine," I blurt out, almost immediately regretful of my joking tone.

He looks at me rather seriously not sure what to say. After a moment's pause, he says, "you said it, not me. And who would I be to lie to you? Besides, young attractive people tend to garner a lot more attention. It's a sad side effect of the business but I assure you that you next to this story will get more attention than Will. Simple marketing strategy."

Despite my joke about it, I'm not really comfortable being used in that manner though he does have a point. We certainly don't have "homely" people here at the Center, but if I'm being a bit harsh and a little truthful I'm probably one of the most attractive people here - and certainly the most senior aside from Will. Not that the sixty-eight-year-old Mrs. Jackson isn't lovely, she's not a great candidate in that ghastly orange cable knit muumuu she has going on today.

"Well it was wonderful talking to you," Asher says as as he stows the point-and-shoot camera back in his coat pocket. He also pulls out a business card and our fingers brush slightly as he places it in my hand. "Please feel free to contact me if there's anything else you want to add."

"Of course," I say, dropping the card into my pocket and looking away from him.

"And really, it was a pleasure," he says with a flirtatious grin.

"Thank you for coming to speak with us," I say, hoping that he doesn't try to shake my hand as he leaves. Though he has been quite complementary I'm still not sure how to read him just yet.

"You'll be hearing more from me, I'm sure," he says as he turns away from me and I can't help but flush slightly. To say the afternoon has been unexpected is an understatement.

* * *

As I head home for the evening, my phone rings.

"Hello?" I say, shoving my poor dilapidated phone under my ear as I hustle toward the subway station down the street. I nearly drop my iPod and the strap on my messenger bag as I juggle the phone and all my things.

"Did I call at a bad time?" I hear a familiar voice chuckle on the other side of the line.

"Blaine!" I say, slightly louder than I would have liked and wincing at the decibel of my voice. "It's fine, how are you?" I say calmly.

"You sound surprised to hear from me."

Well, I was a little concerned but there's no need to tell him that.

"I'm sorry I haven't been in touch earlier, I'm afraid I got caught up with a few things," he says, I can sense a level of remorse in his voice.

"Is everything alright?" I ask.

"Of course," he dismisses and immediately I acknowledge that I knew better than to ask what those 'things' would be. "But forgive me for keeping you waiting. I assure you, it's of no reflection on you; I quite desire your company."

That slick, charming asshole. God, if I didn't want him so much I would roll my eyes. Though it does bring a sense of relief to hear that he still wants me, even if it's not in a sexual capacity.

"All is forgiven," I reassure him.

"Good. When I realized it'd been three days since we last spoke I was worried that you would have forgotten about me or thought that I was no longer interested; you know, three day rule and all."

"I never forgot you, I told you I was busy that day and I had simply lost track of time. And besides you never returned my underwear from that night." I could be getting myself into dangerous territory with that comment, but it's worth the risk.

"We will have to remedy that," he says, dark tone to his voice and a little raspy if I'm not mistaken.

"You mean with another date?" I ask hopefully.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

The only thing I have planned tomorrow is binge watching Downton Abbey, but I need to make him a little impatient since he had me on pins and needles for so long. "I'm afraid I have plans with another man and he's been most attentive while you've been away."

He practically growls though I can only laugh with his possessiveness. It's oddly a turn on and yet so completely unnecessary.

"I'm afraid that other man is going to be detained tomorrow, much to your chagrin."

"Is that a threat?" I joke.

"No," he says hotly. "It's a promise."

I'm practically fanning myself now, which is unnecessary with the fall winds at my back. "I guess I better send him away then when you come calling." I'm thankful he can't see me right now or else he'd think he'd be going on a date with a blue-eyed tomato.

"You better, I'll pick you up at three."

"Three tomorrow it is," I say, thankful for a Saturday morning to prepare for our date.

After we hang up, most of my worries about Blaine are squashed almost completely. Though he seems hesitant to elaborate on the troubles he's facing, he seems to be in better spirits today. I can only hope that his call means that he's sorted things out and his distractions will be minimal while on our date tomorrow. And maybe he'll also give up on this no sex nonsense.

I'm grinning like an idiot in the middle of the sidewalk contained in my own world, so self involved that I only snap to attention when Will nudges against me on his way to the subway as well.  
"You look delighted. Good news?" he asks.

"Oh, uh, no, just… uh…"

He smiles. "Who were you speaking to on the phone. You looked thrilled with the conversation." Great, this means he's been watching me for a while as I've been flailing internally thanks to hearing Blaine's voice.

"Just a friend," I say quickly.

"A friend. Hmm," he says questioningly as he flutters past me and heads down the stairs to the train.

I take a moment to gather my bearings - thankful that Will has left but realizing that I'm not a very convincing liar. If Blaine and I are keeping our relationship on the down low, I should maybe be better at thinking on my feet.

But I acknowledge that at some point, the gig will be up and the truth will come out. I'll have to create a story about how we met to my co-workers, to Will, to my father - that will not at all include our sexcapades at the Anderson manor. I don't want to lie - not to anyone - but I'll certainly have to be creative about it.

But for now, there's nothing to worry about aside from my date tomorrow with Blaine and I mentally start to go through my closet as I descend the stairs and head home.

Between Asher's article and Blaine's call, it's been a pretty good day. And tomorrow, I'm certain, will be even better.

* * *

_A/N: As an Independence Day present for you US folks, here's another chapter! I feel like I'm on a roll update-wise! Please leave some love and tell your friends! 3 _


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

I notice that something's off the minute Blaine picks me up for our date.

He's as prompt as ever when he raps on the door at 3, and I open it to see a smiling Blaine in a charcoal sweater with dark wash jeans and Italian leather loafers on his feet. I'm tempted to drag him in my apartment and have my way with him - the dark tones of his clothes only causing his skin and eyes to pop - and the smile he gives me just oozes sexy and I can barely keep my wits about me. He kisses me, softly yet not without want, and I immediately wrap my arms around him, scooting up the hem of the shirt to feel the skin on his back, though I immediately regret that when he pulls away and shakes his head.

"Someone's a little eager," he notes, eyes gleaming. Then I see it - a flash of something in his expression. But before I can catalog it in the Many Looks Of Blaine archive which I run through on a seemingly daily basis, it's gone, but whatever it is I know that something is lingering under that smoldering look I saw when he first arrived.

He's still mum on what could be bothering him, but I remind myself that I'm here to act as a distraction and to help him know how much he's cared for since he does seem so dreadfully lonely most of the time. I smile and pretend like nothing is wrong as we take his sedan to Brooklyn Bridge Park. "It's nothing fancy," he says, "but my father used to bring my brother and I here sometimes when we wanted to take a break from the Manhattan life. We used to sit for hours on the bench and watch the people stroll by or the runners jog in clusters. And besides, this view is beautiful." He almost sounds like he wishes we could be somewhere else and I realize it's probably not as a result of whatever history he has hidden with his father, but likely because he's used to wining and dining his dates at five star restaurants and adorning them with gifts, and here we are at Brooklyn Bridge Park and the most expensive food option nearby is a $3 slice of pizza just up the street. But he also isn't used to dating guys like me, guys who are satisfied with the closeness that happens when you hold hands.

"It's perfect," I say, squeezing his hand. "I've always loved it and I'm glad you brought me here."

He smiles at me, a softness to his somewhat wicked smile, the one that causes my insides to swoop. The shadows and doubts and worries are still there, but there's hope with Blaine's smile relaxing and the loose feeling in his arms as we hold hands.

He leads me along the path to the area near the pool alongside the shore, closed for the season with the cooler weather at our backs. During the summer months, it's busy in this section of the park between the pool and the Pier 4 beach but it's empty now and we continue to wander further away from the bridge's pathway into and out of Manhattan. The air is chilly in that lovely mid-autumn way and I'm glad I thought to wear a thicker scarf underneath my light jacket. I may always be equipped with a scarf but the thicker material is helpful on a chilly day like today. I lean against his warmth when a particularly gusty breeze comes from the river and Blaine slides his arm around my waist.

It's strange to be a normal couple - well, normal for a gay couple which is pretty prevalent in New York these days - just walking along the shore of the river. I mean, this is the guy who is not only used to decadence but he's also capable of fucking me against a wall in the middle of a damp dungeon with clothes in my mouth to keep me quiet. It seems so unusual to experience this level of ordinary with someone as extraordinary as Blaine. I glance at Blaine who's smile is tight and his jaw is set with tension.

"How was your week?" he asks, bringing further levels of normalcy into our date, though I appreciate our ability to just chat about life. "Did you discover any painting ingenues this week?"

I think back and remember how talking about my work, though it brought me much joy, seemed to make him uncomfortable and I don't want this to ruin our wonderfully normal (albeit sexless) date. "I don't want to talk about work," I say kindly. I want to change the direction of our conversation from this conversational chat and perhaps entice him a little to add a little bit of intrigue into our relationship and remind him of the passionate, whimsical way we existed while at his manor, even if it's not a sexual kind of passion.

"See that pier down there?" I say, gesturing to the structure at the end of the section of the park. "I'll race you to it. First one down there has to cook the other dinner. And trust me, it's something you'll want to fight for - I'm an excellent cook."

His eyes darken with the challenge. I should have known, Blaine and those damn games. "Are you sure that's a good idea? You know how I hate to lose."

"Afraid I'll win? My legs are longer than yours. You should be afraid," I joke.

Before he has the chance to respond I jet off hoping that my long legs will lead me to victory despite the sand between where we stood and the pier.

"Cheater!" he yells. Despite the fact that he's shorter than me, I can hear him gaining on me quicker than I would have liked.

Adrenaline pumps through me as I weave past an empty tent rental hut. There are maybe one or two joggers up along the paved portion of the park though they're easily a hundred feet away from us. People seem uninterested in us - typical New York City behavior - though I'm sure we have to look a little strange running in the sand like to children in the middle of autumn.

Blaine takes the other path around the rental booth and that way must've been faster since he's gaining on me even faster. I resent him a little bit for being so fast - he doesn't look like he'd be a fast runner - but I can hear him breathing behind me. Once he's close enough to reach me, he tugs at my sweater and causes me to fall back slightly, giving him another advantage as he continues to jog toward our destination.  
"Who's the cheater now?" I squeal, "And this sweater is cashmere, you can't just stretch it like that!" I yell darting back toward the pier.

Blaine has a few steps on me now, but I'm not going to let him win - not this time. Thankfully the sand seems to be a bit softer in this section of the beach and Blaine's strides start to slow as sand creeps into his Italian leather loafers. I'm thankful that I wore my boots which have kept the sand out of my shoes and allowing me to stride faster without worry. As he struggles to tread against the sand, I manage to take back the few steps and even manage to gain on Blaine's earlier lead.

We're really close to the pier now and the grain in the pier is coming into focus. Blaine is on my heels and I can anticipate him reaching for me and I manage to twist my way out of his grasp, unable to pull the same stunt twice.

But I continue to underestimate him. Just as we're maybe twenty paces from the pier, he lunges, catching me around the waist. We both land in the sand, stumbling over each other with Blaine against my back and my stomach in the sand. I'm so close I might be able to manage wringing free from his grasp and reach out just enough to touch the pier. I manage to pry my arm free from under Blaine's captivity and I'm rewarded with my hand grazing the plank of the pier.

"I win!" I cheer victoriously. Despite my win, Blaine continues to keep me pinned to the ground. "You owe me dinner," I say, looking over my shoulder at him, his face placed against my shoulder blade.

"Is that so?" he breathes into my shoulder. Though I'm wearing a thicker sweater, his warmth feels good against my back.

"You lost," I remind him, "even though you tried to cheat. I won. I want to claim my prize."

"I'm the cheater? You're the one who jump started!" I laugh and he tightens his grip around my waist. "And besides, you never said I couldn't tackle you. And don't for a minute tell me that you didn't enjoy it," he says with a wicked smile.

He's right. This position, though not my favorite, only presses my ass further against his dick. Though I can't feel any excitement beneath his pants, there's only so much time before that could change. He pushes himself further up my body and his breath is now at my neck, causing me to shiver. Warmth takes over as he gently kisses the nape of my neck and breathily moans against it. I raise my hips slightly, causing my ass to graze the front of his pants, a small level of excitement coming to life.

He pulls away slightly and eases some of his weight off my body. "We should stop before things get out of hand," he resigns.

I hate to admit it, but he's right. I hardly want to be arrested for public indecency, even if I would relish in the act that would get me arrested in the first place.

"Maybe we should use that abandoned hut," I say, nodding back toward the small building we passed.

"No," he says. "We decided to wait to have sex."

I roll my eyes. "If I recall correctly, you decided we would wait to have sex. I'm perfectly fine with the idea," I say as I push Blaine off of me and push myself up off the sand. He reaches out to pull me against him - face to face this time - and I lay somewhat awkwardly with our chests touching but our lower halves nowhere near each other. I run a hand down his chest as he holds me tighter around my lower back, teasingly inching closer to my ass. Rather than continue his path downward, he brings his hand to my shoulder and uses one to cup my face. The movement causes our eyes to meet and Blaine's look so… serious.

"Trust me Kurt, it's better this way." He brushes some sand off my cheek. "I just don't want us to rush into anything before we're ready."

His statement hits me like a punch to the gut. He's not ready for this - he doesn't want to make this a thing so he's trying to pull away from me in the one way that we had clicked so perfectly before. He wants to separate us physically so he doesn't have to connect with me emotionally. He doesn't want to be "all in." I'm truly a distraction and not in a way that will keep me as a part of Blaine's life for the long term.

The thought kills me.

He's watching me closely but I can't look at him now, not after I realize that he doesn't want this to be anything substantial. He doesn't seem to realize my anguish when he leans up and kisses me softly on the cheek. "So, how about that dinner?" he questions softly.

I nod silently, not trusting me to say anything good or sane. I stand again and brush the sand off my clothes and he does the same. Once we're both free of lingering sand, he reaches out for me and pulls me close, burying his nose in my clavicle and tucking his cold nose into my neck. "Thank you," he whispers, "for being patient."

"Of course," I reply, trying to hug him tighter as if willing him to not let this go through my touch.

His grip tightens more. "Kurt…" His voice sounds so… broken. It's something Blaine has never sounded like - he sounds so resigned, so lost; something is clearly wrong and I continue to hold him as the waves from the river flit against the shore.

"I'm here," I say reassuringly. "I'm always here." You have to know how much I care, I think to myself wishing I had the guts to say it out loud.

He whispers again, breath tickling my ear. "You don't know what you do to me."

I close my eyes. "But I know what you do to me," I say, barely loud enough to hear.

I wait for him to reply but instead I'm met with silence. Yet he doesn't let me go. He's tight against my frame and shoulders seem tense as I hold them against me. It breaks my heart to know he's carrying this much worry in him - physically and emotionally - but I don't know what to do. He won't really let me in and being in the periphery is only helping so much.

We stay like that for some time before my stomach starts to rumble. I couldn't eat anything before our date - nerves - so now I'm starving.

"Come on," he says, pulling himself from me. "Let's go eat."

We turn and head back toward the entrance near the bridge where Blaine had parked. I'm an emotional wreck and hardly know how to feel after that conversation with Blaine. Rather than think about the conversation, I think about how nice the weather is and how much I love scarf season. As if to make things better, Blaine takes my hand in his and twines his fingers through mine. His grip is steady, secure, assured. Our fingers don't believe that anything is wrong and I trust the unspoken language of our bodies more than the words running around in my head.

We're nearly back to the road leading into the park when Blaine flinches and turns looking around the park. I try to follow his gaze but I don't see what he's looking at. "What is it?" I ask.

He doesn't respond just clutches my hand tighter and continues on the path toward the car. His grasp on my hand doesn't relinquish and if anything he gets tenser as we walk up the street.

It's clear that something is wrong once his car is in sight; there's a crowd of people waiting for us. And not just traditional people - reporters.

They come at us all at once like a pack of flies, recorders and small microphones in hand, cameras trailing them by a few steps.

"Mr. Anderson! Mr. Anderson!" they cry as Blaine picks up his pace, practically tugging me behind him.

"Did you know about your father's financial troubles?"

"Have you lost everything?"

"What happened to the millions of dollars promised to the Red Cross?"

"Did your father have a gambling addiction?"

Blaine keeps his stride confident, his head down and face emotionless as he nears the car and forces his way through the crowd. He's practically crushing me with the way in which he's holding my hand.

"We have to run," he whispers as he pulls me closer.

Without a second's notice, he takes off, dragging me by the hand behind him. We race past the car, past the reporters and up the street, dodging cars as we dart across side streets toward the main strip of Dumbo. It's not until we reach a bank of Citi bikes that Blaine stops, satisfied that we lost the people with the heavy equipment wearing skirts and suits that were following us. I turn back and see that we've lost most of the crowd though one lone reporter looks determined in her suit set, hiking her bag up on her shoulder as she struts down the street in her stilettos. And with our luck, the rest will follow her - just what we needed on our second date.

We're far from the car now and in Brooklyn which means flagging down a cab will be impossible. The only option are the Citi bikes or to hide away in one of the shops or restaurants nearby.

"Over here," Blaine says, pointing toward a small, quiet bar just off the main path with the entrance tucked on a brick-paved side street.

We walk inside the bar and note that it's tiny - even by New York standards. It pretty much only fits a bar, a handful of stools and small bar tables and a restroom in the back. It's a British pub style, so the decor is British complete with a British telephone booth inside. Why they decided to shove a phone booth into the tiny bar is beyond me but it's a nice nod to the UK. The man behind the bar gives us a subtle nod before turning back to the soccer match and the sole customer near the bar's flatscreen.

Just as I think we've lost the reporter, I hear the clicking of heels approaching the door. This part of Brooklyn hardly hosts "heel clackers" so I can't help but panic. My eyes go wide and I look at Blaine who quickly takes my hand and shoves both of us into the phone booth.

"Are you serious?" I say as he pushes close to me and shuts the folding door.

It's certainly not bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside, but we both manage to fit okay. Thankfully the glass doors have been covered with antiqued pages from London newspapers so someone from the outside isn't able to see in. Aside from the bathrooms, I guess that this is the best hiding place we can manage.

Though due to the limited space, Blaine and I are pushed chest-to-chest with hardly any space to move. It's not unwelcome, but the closer proximity causes my skin to buzz under the surface since every breath I inhale is laden with Blaine. "This is cozy," I murmur, practically breathing into his face.

He adjusts his face so his mouth is next to my ear, breath hot against my skin. "Indeed," he says distractedly, the words causing goosebumps. I can tell he's keeping an ear out for the reporter and soon enough, the bell on the door jingles and the heels click inside, the person's breaths coming in deep as if they'd been running.

Shit. I knew this would happen - I feared it on Blaine's behalf - and the public would only remain in the dark for so long before news of their financial ruin would be public knowledge. I had hoped the Anderson name would stay out of the tabloids, but people love a good scandal and salivate over the ruin of others - especially the privileged.

The worst part is that there's nothing I can do for him. Things are going to get worse before they get better and Blaine's already so deep in turmoil that I'm afraid this could be the final nail in the coffin. I want to be there for him, but there's nothing I can really do to help.

"Ignore her," I whisper, shifting slightly so my hand rubs against his. It's a small soothing motion but it's the best I can muster. We can just hide here until she catches her breath and leaves. She can't know we're in here. We could be anywhere."

I can't really see his face since turning our heads would cause our noses to crush against each other. Instead, the only way I know that he's heard what I have to say is the slight murmur that escapes his lips as he leans closer and places his head on my shoulder.

"It could be a while. She knows we're nearby and she might just hang here until she gets another tip. There have to be other reporters nearby, they know we can't have gone far," he sighs. He chuckles lightly, humorlessly. "You could be stuck with me like this for hours."

I feel the vibrations in my chest and my cock twitches with interest. Damn his proximity and his smell and the way he's pressed against me. It's not like I want anything to happen while we're in here; the booth is barely bigger than a shower and-

Bad idea. Do not think of Blaine in a shower. That can't end well. Especially not with this sexless dating bullshit Blaine is so fond of.

I can't help but bring my arms up his, to lightly rub his shoulders. He's tense - rightly so - and I begin to move my hands in circles hoping to soothe some of his stress through touch. Eventually he starts to relax and he huffs out a breath against my neck. "Kurt…" he says softly and without protest. He shifts slightly, slotting himself against me so our one of his legs is between both of mine, and tightens his grip on me. The way we're aligned now has us pressed closer than ever and I can't help but shift my hands from his shoulder down to his lower back, still rubbing circles but pulling the hem of his sweater away from his pants.

"Kurt," he says somewhat harshly.

"What?," I ask innocently as my hand creeps along his back, tucked between the sweater and his skin.

"Stop teasing me."

Again, I'm content to be the distraction as I pull focus from the woman in the bar to me annoying him. I'll take it. "Are you not tempted at all?" I whisper, thankful that our proximity doesn't allow for him to move away from my touch.

He sucks in a breath and pulls me tighter at the waist. "Temptation has nothing to do with it."

"No?" I say, slipping my hands beneath his sweater again, lightly dragging my trimmed nails against his back. I can feel him shudder against me.

"I know what you're doing," he accuses lowly. "We've played this game before to see who would break first. If I remember correctly, you lost then too."

"That's up for debate," I say, turning my head slightly to nip at his earlobe. His body tenses - I know I've found one of his "spots" - and I can finally feel the slight sense of arousal in his pants as his bulge grows.

"Yeah, hey Pete, it's Hannah," a woman says from right outside the booth. I continue to nibble on Blaine's ear, though I can tell he heard her too. "No, I don't know where they went but it can't be far. I'm stationed in this bar I thought they went into. I'll just station myself here until they come out. They'll have to at some point," she says and I hear a stool scrape along the concrete floor. "For the meantime, I'm going to follow up on a few leads from here and try to wait it out, but keep me posted if you see them head back to the car, okay?" Our ears are met with silence, presumably she's listening to this 'Pete' on the other line. "No, you and I aren't abandoning the post until we get the first interview. I have to get that interview," 'Hannah' says and I curse her drive to succeed. If she's stationed outside of this phone booth, we could be stuck here awhile.

The stool scrapes again and I can sense Blaine getting stiffer in his shoulders despite the fact that I'm still nibbling on his ear and breathing into it just the way I've come to know that he loves. I rub his back smoothly as I keep nibbling on his ear and though his posture remains harsh and cautious, I can feel the rumble of a moan as our chests press against each other. He grips me harder, somewhere between a wanton grab and a comforting hug, but I sigh with relief when he tucks his nose next to my ear and breathes deeply against my neck.

"You're not really helping me any, Kurt," he whispers softly yet deeply. "You may be trying to calm me down but you're only making me more excited." He shifts himself so our slotted legs move to the side and his hard cock rubs against my leg.

I whimper as quietly as possible and my breaths come out quicker against the skin of his neck. I hear the stool outside of the phone booth scrape again before I hear the sound of squeaking getting closer. There's a quiet murmured conversation right outside our hiding place but I can't process what they're saying since the blood from my head is rushing to my other head and Blaine's deep, breathy moans are distracting me more and more.

Part of me is amused by this entire situation. Who knew that today would be the day Blaine would want to have a "normal" and sexless date and yet we end up playing a game of cat-and-mouse with a flock of reporters. And aside from that, we certainly didn't expect to be trapped in a retrofitted phone booth in a British-style pub while frotting against each other while some overachieving reporter is on the other side of the very thin barrier. He claps a hand over my mouth, then leans in and whispers so quietly in my ear that I can barely hear him.

"So you think this is funny, do you? Think this is a game?"

It's a little funny, but right now it's just hot. It seems like Blaine's resolve is crumbling slightly as my cock continues to harden and he eventually starts to respond with the motion of his hips when I moan softly in his ear as his motions continue. With Blaine's cock next to mine and his chest thumping against my own - the last thing I'm thinking of is the woman on the other side of the door.

"If you want to make this a game, you forget who you're playing against. And I don't lose," he says softly as he sucks in the slightest bit on the skin on my neck, immediately causing goosebumps to form up and down my body. He drags his teeth across my skin and I try to contain the moan I can feel resonating inside of me. I move my arms up around his shoulders and tuck my fingers into his curly yet tamed hair, scratching his scalp as his teeth do the same against my neck and his mouth moves toward my ear. We're both trying to be quiet, but if it weren't for the ambient noise outside the pub surely she would hear us. Thank god for that game on the TV to buffer the noise.

"You like that?" he breathes. "You like being in here with me like this while that woman is right outside the door?"

Just as things start to get interesting, I hear something clack against the side of the booth as the door slightly pushes open. It doesn't deter us from our mission to rub against each other in this tiny booth and we continue to push against each other with Blaine taking the lead and me just taking in every wicked movement of his hips against mine.

Fuck this sexless shit, I'm over it and it seems like Blaine is too. If it was possible I would let him fuck me right now in this booth.

It's obvious that Blaine's abandoned his sexless existence as he grips my hips tighter and moves one hand to the front of my pants where my dick is likely, comically tenting my pants. His mouth is burning a trail of fire from my ear to the place where he's refocused in sucking on my neck. Rather than shove his hands beneath the waistband, he grasps my cock firmly and rubs the palm of his hand against my cock and the friction is perfect. Wickedly perfect.

"I'm not going to give it to you," he whispers. "I'm not going to have sex with you. I'm going to bring you right to the edge and leave you there, and then maybe you'll understand how serious I am."

So maybe he is going to continue with this sexless thing but in the most frustrating way possible. Asshole. And what's worse is that I know that he's telling the truth. He has infuriatingly consistent restraint and seems unaffected when I attempt to taunt him with my body. I wish that my own would get its shit together so he couldn't practically own me with how much I want him.

The woman - 'Hannah' - moves outside of our booth and we both still. We can hear her clacking heels hit the concrete but we both calm when we realize that she's just shifted the chair slightly and probably resituated herself on the stool.

The moment the panic has passed, Blaine resumes his movements against me and our dicks rub against each other again, causing me to almost groan out loud but I'm able to clamp down on my mouth before any sound emits in the air. And this time, he's even picked up the pace.

And this new development has me worried. Up until this point we've already had a hard enough time keeping it quiet - especially with Hannah right outside the door - but he's making it harder (no pun intended) for the silence to remain. Though there's white noise due to the TV, there's going to be a point where we're going to make noise; I can only restrain myself so much. But Blaine seems unphased. Doesn't he care that he's practically turning me into a moaning whore and it could go badly oh-so-quickly? As if to warn him, I tug on his hair slightly to pull him away but that only seems to increase his efforts.

With the pressure that he moves at to up the speed and the aching want in my limbs, I lose the ability to control them. I hit the side of the booth with a resounding "whap" and the door opens even further.

We both freeze. There's no way she didn't hear us this time. I can tell my eyes are wide with shock and I'm sure Blaine's equally shocked next to me since he's practically stopped moving altogether. I can only tell that he's breathing because his breaths are harsh and deep against my neck.

The stool moves again and to my horror, I see a french manicured hand begin to pull open the door.

Fuck.

The door opens all the way and Hannah's face moves from curious to an expression that mimics a cat who got the cream. But before she can bend down to grab something from her bag, Blaine moves forward and shoves her against the stool, causing her to fall over in her three inch heels.

I can barely process what just happened before Blaine grabs my hand and pulls me from the booth. We quickly run out the door and don't look back and head back toward the car. The car that her partner is likely at.

"But Blaine, the guy she's with…" I start but Blaine cuts me off.

"We can't get a cab and we can drive faster than someone can walk," he says, powering forward toward the car. It's only a block or so away, but we make it there in what feels like seconds; thriving off the adrenaline of Hannah discovering us and motivated by the brief break for freedom.

Thankfully when we arrive at the car it seems like the trail of reporters is no longer there or have moved to other locations to try to seek out Blaine. I'm thankful that the rest of the crews following us weren't as gung-ho as our 'friend' Hannah, but it allows for Blaine and I to quickly get into his sedan and drive away - quickly and barely legally following the traffic signs.

As I gather my bearings now that we're seated and in motion and I can't stop shaking. I can't tell if it's from the close encounter with the reporter or what had happened in the booth. I look over at Blaine and the harsh barrier is back. His jaw is set and he's staring straight ahead determinedly and I can tell he's going through a million things in his head. That was truly terrifying but for him it has additional implications; it means people know his secrets.

And I can't even imagine how much things are about to change for him.

The worst part is that I sense, with some certainty, that it will change things between us, too, and I don't know how to stop it.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Any sexual tension we'd had while crammed together in the phone booth is now gone as we drive back toward my apartment. The environment in the car is awkward and I can tell the stress is eating away at Blaine as his grip on the steering wheel has turned his knuckles white. Though the sexual tension has cooled, I can feel the desire thrumming through me as I study his tight jaw and note how firm his grip is on the steering wheel.

I can only think of these things for so long before I remember that talking about something would be fruitless; what would we even talk about? Should I placate him and say that no one reads gossip magazines? That's a farce - especially considering my subscription to Us Weekly - nor would it really help the situation. Should I remind him that this will all pass soon and go back to normal? It can't go back to normal since his father has passed away and it's already been months that he's been bearing this burden alone.

It seems as though my brain is saved by the bell - or, rather, the ring - as his phone goes off. He looks cautiously toward the screen of the phone as it's stored in his cup holder and I can tell he doesn't really read it since his gaze shifts almost the instant he finds it in its place. As it keeps ringing, I look down at the screen, partially out of curiosity partially because I want to help.

"It's not one of-" I start, not wanting to acknowledge the chase that caused us to flee the scene. "It's Tim Renley."

If my memory serves, Tim is probably the guy who's helping Blaine in the aftermath of his father's decisions and working on the financial stuff with him.

Blaine relaxes considerably as he grabs the phone just before the final ring. "Tim, hey," he says calmly into the phone. I can hear the faint words on the other side of the phone but can't make out what he's saying. Within a few moments, Blaine seems to remember that his conversation is not exactly private as he looks at me out of the corner of his eye and he shifts the phone so he's listening on the ear furthest away from me. "Listen," he says, "I have some thoughts but can I call you back?"

Tim must agree since Blaine's conversation ends after a short goodbye and he stows the phone back in the cupholder between us.

I don't know what to think. Blaine has always been a very private person about the state of his affairs as well as his emotions, but he's going on the point of frustrating since his private conversations seem secret and intentionally evasive rather than just trying to keep things to himself. I know he doesn't want to burden others with his financial issues, but I can tell it's not just about the money anymore; it's about how he's dealing with everything.

I look over at him. "Do you want to talk? About anything?" I ask shyly.

"Not really," he answers curtly.

I sigh and lean against the window and look out at the streets as they pass while we drive deeper into Brooklyn. I can understand where he's coming from but I hate that he's dealing with it alone. If his brother was around he might be able to help, but Blaine doesn't seem confident in his brother's ability to help him to anything to alter the Anderson reputation. But I can't let him do this alone, not now that I'm in his life.

"Blaine, I-"

"I don't want to talk about it, Kurt."

"Maybe that's all the more reason that you should."

I can tell that was the wrong thing to say when his grip tightens further and I can practically feel him seething next to me. I sit and look at him side-eyed for a minute and watch his grip loosen and eventually he turns toward me as we roll to a stop at a red light. "Look, I know you're trying to help but I need to deal with this on my own." The light remains red and I can't think of anything to say, but before I can mull it over for too long, Blaine interrupts my thoughts. "I'm sorry. I knew that word would get out soon enough. But I was hoping I would have enough time to sort a few things out before it made it into the tabloids."

"What things?" I ask curiously.

"Please," he pleads. "Please, Kurt."

"But I'm just trying to-"

"You're not exactly ready to share parts of your life with me either," he returns. His tone isn't angry, just resigned. "You won't tell anyone about us," he says, a little more sadness seeping into his words.

"That different than this."

"Is it? I'm not trying to fight my way into your work life or push you to talk to your boss about me. I know you're close with him but he doesn't even know me aside from being the Devil Incarnate for jeopardizing the Center. And I can only imagine that your father, who you claim to speak to every week, has no idea that I exist."

Now Blaine sounds more angry than he had before and I'm surprised to learn that this bothered him so much. But he's right; though my intentions are good, we're not exactly at the point in our relationship where we're open to that degree. Things are still new and a little weird and we're seemingly set with keeping it that way for a little while.

"In light of this recent development, would it be possible to take a rain check on dinner? I know I owe you but I just… can't right now," he says, safely interrupting me from my anguish over Blaine's words.

I shake my head which only makes me feel dizzy both inside and out as his words continue to stew. "Take all the time you need."

This seems to be the first time that Blaine and I have experienced anger or frustration directed at each other, at least when it comes to our relationship. We obviously had our share of disagreements when we were at his estate but this is different. Those were about business, about the Center; these are about me and him, both together and separately. Deep down I wish he would just say something though rather than hide his pain behind those beautiful honeyed eyes. And I hate that he and I are disagreeing on this in the first place.

I know that things are still new with us and we will likely have more in the future - if there is a future the masochist in me supplies - but I hate it. Blaine doesn't need something else to worry him; I'm supposed to be his distraction, something easy to take his mind off his troubles. Somehow I feel like I did just the opposite.

The fact that he won't look at me seems to solidify that, but I can't help but look at him. I wonder if he notices how I'm taking in his troubled glare as he focuses on the road in front of him, how I see the worry lines forming in his forehead as he ponders something inside his weary mind, how his grip seems to wax and wane as his mind rattles through the events leading up to right now and how it's set a course for his life that he likely didn't imagine. He looks rough and it aches my heart to see him like this.

I just want things to be okay with us since nothing else is okay. I wish we weren't confined to this car so I could hug him and let him feel my caring through touch.

Though we can't hug, I reach out and tuck an errant curl behind his ear - one that had sprung free during our dash back to the car. My hand brushes his cheek lightly as I put it aside and the slightest touch of my fingertips brings a chill to my spine and I shiver with the contact.

"Kurt…" he says, providing no end to his thought. He might not even be aware that he spoke my name, but all I can note is that I want to make this right. Our time is coming to a close since he's pulled onto my street and all I can think of is ways to make him know how much I care.

He pulls into a vacant space on the corner of the street and I drop my hands from his face and pat my pockets to ensure that I have my keys, wallet, and phone. But it seems like my touch ignited a fire in him since the moment he practically slams the car into park, he crossing the center console in the car to reach over to me and pulls me toward him.

I barely have time to acknowledge his quick movements before he's pulling me into a searing kiss. His fingers frame my face and the tips of his fingers grace the edges of my hairline as he pulls me closer to him with a somewhat gentle firmness as his tongue invades my mouth and lovingly ties with my own in a sensual and demanding kiss. It's as if we can't get enough of each other, especially since our lips and tongues have to do what our cocks wish they could do as our tongues thrust into and out of our mouths eager to soak in the taste of the other. I grab a fistful of his sweater but manage to have enough brain power to not try to hitch it up or remove it; this has to be enough, it is enough. This passionate kiss is enough to quench me for the night, and leave enough to remember as I work myself to orgasm later tonight.

I pull away first, trying my best to remember that Blaine asked for us to not have sex and my overwhelming desire to keep things uncomplicated with me. I feel like I'm going to float away as I look upon his face, eyes still closed and lips slightly pursed as I find my personal space again. "Goodbye," I say softly, my breath on his face and his eyes slowly opening in the wake of my goodbye. "I had a wonderful time with you."

He gives a small smile before leaning in a little and nudging his forehead against mine. It's an unusually intimate gesture from Blaine but I relish in this simple yet calming touch. "I'm sorry for, well, the way things ended. But I promise I'll make it up to you," he says sweetly.

"I'm counting on it."

He leans forward one last time to place a gentle kiss on my lips which has be aflame more than the tongue-tangled kiss from moments before. His kiss and his soft-spoken words tell me everything I needed to know.

* * *

"Have you seen this?" Morgan asks as she unceremoniously flops into the chair in front of my desk. "Is it true? Do you know about this scandal?" she says, holding up a New York Post article highlighting the life and hardships of the Anderson family.

My stomach sinks as I take in the headline, "Ruined! The Andersons lose everything!" And below in the sub headline, in smaller but no less bold letters, reads, "The downfall of New York royalty." I don't want to read the article; the headlines are enough to make me want to puke. Since it's the Post, it's probably half truths at best full of quotes from "inside sources" who barely knew the Andersons personally and continues to smear their name in a million unfathomable ways. Not to mention the image they chose to include in the article is one from a benefit where Blaine and his father are looking away from each other, seemingly angrily, surrounded by affluent partygoers from some fundraiser in the background. It's repulsive.

"So?" Morgan goads, shaking the paper in her hand, the crinkling of the newsprint only making my nausea worsen. "What's going on? Did Blaine really lose everything?"

I know Morgan is just nosey and doesn't mean much by it, but I don't want to let her believe the lies that were in that tabloid. "These tabloids exaggerate everything," I say calmly. "His father made some poor financial choices but it's not like he's living in a box in Central Park or anything."

"The article says he sold everything," she notes.

"How practical is it for Blaine, one man, to have all that stuff? He's practically at it alone and his brother is gone half the time."

"Ah, I forgot about Cooper," she says, flipping the page to reveal a second page on the scandal. The headline there reads "A Brother with a Gift: Cooper Anderson's tour of philanthropy" with the subtitle "Cooper Anderson's educational tour teaches underprivileged youth about the importance of the arts." I can't help but roll my eyes in my head. Yes, Cooper and I technically are in the same field when it comes to educating children in the arts. But according to Blaine, it seems like more of an excuse for him to teach kids about "method acting" (Blaine had said this in quotes noting that his brother deems method acting to wild hand gestures and speaking too loudly while on stage) while also sowing his wild oats across the globe while some theater nonprofit foots the bill. Apparently Cooper is able to travel far and wide cheaply since he goes at it alone, but apparently his story is also exaggerated; much like the one of the woes of the Anderson clan.

Aside from that, I imagine that nowhere in the article does it mention how Cooper barely stayed behind for the funeral before jetting to god-knows-where and leaving Blaine alone to deal with this himself. He's the older brother, surely he would want to have some level of control over his family's estate. Aren't families supposed to go through these hard times together? I can't imagine not speaking to my father about something were we to experience tragedy beyond what we already had, but Blaine feels that loneliness everyday. And it makes me hate Cooper a little bit for seeming to shine in the spotlight while his brother looks like a lonely, destitute, angry son.

But he's not alone, I remind myself, he has me now.

"What's that look for?" Morgan asks, noting how my face is always unable to hide my emotions. Stupid elastic face syndrome.

But before I can comment, Will pops in. "What are you two gossiping about now?" Will asks curiously. For some reason he has always wanted to hear about gossip - despite the fact that he's our boss - which sometimes leads to really awkward conversations with him. Though we're close, I'm sure Will wishes we were closer… but that will never happen.

Morgan, who's still new and doesn't realize that Will is a gossip monger, seems a little leery to mention what we were discussing before Will peeks at the tabloid in her hand.

"Please tell me you don't read this garbage," Will says, nodding toward the paper. He looks a little closer at the open section and his eyes seem to bug slightly when reading the headline. "Hm," he says, leaning in closer to read the article a bit more. He seems satisfied enough after a couple of seconds, the stands back at attention and ignores the paper once again. "Have you heard anything from the Crasters? We're waiting on the final payment for their anniversary party."

"I'll give them a call," I reply, though I really want to know what his weighted "hm" was about when he inspected the article a little closer. I wonder if reading about Blaine's hardships will change his perspective on the Andersons and reneging on their pledge.

Before I can think to do so, Will is retreating out of the office. But before he walks out the door, he calls over his shoulder. "Oh, and Kurt? That reporter called again. He has a few more questions and asked that you call him today when you're available."

Such a throwaway note would normally not incite terror in me, but the circumstances for this call are not ones I want to linger on. He was really flirty when he was here and a man like that, who reminds me too much of Adam, is not someone I want to deal with on a regular basis. As if today wasn't annoying enough.

"Okay," I grumble after him, causing Morgan to giggle in her seat. I roll my eyes as she continues to laugh.

"Geez, sounds like you're thrilled for that call. But perhaps if I come back with coffee and a biscotti you'll hate the world a little less," Morgan jokes.

I smile a small smile and nod to her, thankful that though we aren't close that she knows me well enough to read my emotions better than the oblivious Will.

Once she leaves my office, I take the paper she'd left on the chair into my hands and look at the picture a little closer. I know I shouldn't read it, but I can't help but want to know more about what it says.

As I look at the picture of Blaine and his father, I note that my sentiment toward it hasn't changed. A voice in my head warns me of reading the story, but if I want to know what's happening with my- with Blaine and what people are saying about him, I should know what it said.

It's not pretty. Even after a few paragraphs, it makes the Anderson patriarch seem reckless and unhinged while Blaine seems harsh and stoic while Cooper looks like he's trying to improve the world in the wake of the 'disaster' that his father left behind. The article lingers on deep-rooted family issues, illegal business transactions, and even hints at a potential mob hit as to the cause of the most senior Anderson's death. It's all ridiculous and something one would see on Days of our Lives, but people will read this and assume it's truth. And that kills me.

Where the hell do people get this information? I hope Blaine has more sense than I do and doesn't touch this bullshit with a ten-foot pole.

And though most of it seems like harsh hyperbole, I can't wonder if some of the claims aren't rooted in a little truth. After all, isn't that true with most tabloid stories; there's a nugget of truth in every lie? I'm reminded of our conversation in the car when he said he wanted to try to "sort a few things" out; what things? What if it was more than just bad financial investments? What if he had done something illegal? I know Blaine is proud and wants to protect his family's legacy as much as possible, but how far would he go?

I don't know what's going on with him nor do I really think I'll get a straightforward answer, but my fingers are itching to speak with him. Though we haven't spoken since our date a few days ago, I whip out my phone and shoot him a text.

_How are you?_

Figuring he won't respond for a while, I get back to work. Right as it's nearing lunchtime, I hear my phone's familiar ping as a message comes through.

_I had to leave town for business for a couple of days. Dinner when I get back on Thursday?_

He left town on business. Does that mean he's handing family business or he's just trying to escape Manhattan? It takes everything in me not to ask, but I keep remembering that I'm not trying to annoy him but help him. I can be patient and respect his desire for privacy.

_Sure. Dinner on Thursday. Can't wait._

Before I can contemplate the many reasons why Blaine would feel the need to leave New York for "business" my phone rings.  
"Brooklyn Center for the Arts," I say cheerfully into the receiver. "This is Kurt."

"Kurt, just who I was hoping to speak with! It's Asher from the Intown Voice. We spoke last week."

Great, my mind supplies. Just what I did not need today.

"Of course," I say as even tempered as possible. "Mr. Julian. Forgive me for not calling you earlier, things have been rather hectic today."

"Asher," he corrects, "and I hope this isn't a bad time. Should I call you later?"

"No, I have a few moments now. Fire away."

"Great! I imagine you know what I'm going to ask you."

"I'm sorry, I don't.." I say, confused.

"The news about the Andersons."

Oh. Great. Even worse. Here I thought I was going to have to deal with Julian's flirtatious advances but this is worse.

"Do you have any comments? How do you feel about your situation, knowing the truth about the Andersons?"

I was to defend Blaine and explain that the magazines are, at best, only partially true as far as I know but then it would require me to note that I know him in some way outside of his donor status to the Center and that's not something he needs to know. "There are so many stories out there and I'm not sure we have the whole story yet. Either way, it doesn't affect the Center. We've learned to stand on our own two feet."

"That's a very diplomatic answer," he notes.

"It's an honest one," I say with a shrug.

He laughs. "I must say, I admire you more and more every time we speak. People are usually eager to harm others and spill secrets in order to get noticed in the world."

"Not everyone feels the need to be noticed," I reply, hoping that my irritation with him isn't too evident in my voice.

"That can't be true. Everyone wants to be noticed. And everyone has secrets."

"Is that so?" I question.

"I'm sure you have a few stashed away. I imagine a guy like you has a hard time staying out of trouble."

I'm offended and I know it's going to start impacting our conversation. I take a deep breath and reply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He lets out another laugh, only building on my growing hatred of this guy. "A few years in this industry and you learn how to read people. But don't worry, I know better than to press someone for their secrets. I just wanted to see if you had any additional insight on the Anderson story now that word of his economic shortcomings were public knowledge."

"I'm sorry, I can't help you," I say. "But hopefully this doesn't affect your upcoming article about the Center. You're still writing a piece on us and not the Andersons, right?"

"Of course," he says and I can practically feel his smarmy smile. "But every story needs a villain."

"This is the real world; there's no good guys versus bad guys," I retort.

"But when there is, it's a story worth telling," he concludes. "I understand your desire to appear sensitive in this situation and I know you don't want to harm the reputation of Brooklyn Center. But I assure you, you'll win more people over if you try to speak to the fact that you were a victim of the Anderson's financial ruin. It'll probably prompt more donations and more people will see your work as a result of how your programs are lagging in the wake of their failed contributions."

"The Brooklyn Center isn't going to be a charity case and further fuel tabloid chatter. We want to come by our donations and awareness by highlighting the goodness in the community, not the shortcomings of others," I say tersely.

My irritation with him only seem to fuel him more. "Forgive me," he says with a soft chuckle, "I should've known my usual tactics wouldn't work on you. But I hope you don't begrudge me for trying."

"I hope I didn't disappoint you too much," I say, not willing to offer an apology to this man who doesn't deserve one.

"Quite the opposite, I enjoyed speaking with you. If I have any further questions about Brooklyn Center, I'll be sure to reach out."  
"Please see that you do."

Hanging up the phone never felt better and I can feel myself practically slam it down after he says goodbye. It's pretty clear to me that Asher Julian is cut from the same cloth as Adam and is used to using his charming - to others, that is - personality to get information. I know he's trying to do his job, but he's hit a brick wall if he's trying to use me to write some sort of fucked up story about Blaine or his family. Yes, the Center is experiencing some financial struggles. But a lot of nonprofits are in the same boat and we'll get by. Is that the Anderson's fault? Not entirely. It probably wasn't a safe bet to rely on one primary source of income for the Center but their reneging on their contribution certainly didn't make things easier for us.

But we're hoping that a positive write up from a local newspaper highlighting the importance of our program will only help build up a donor base and have more substantial and long-term donors. But doing what Asher recommended is not something I want us to take a part in; Will be damned. Though I do hope that my quick tongue hasn't damaged our chances of that write up since I know we can only thrive for so long without community support and that's the best way to get it.

Thankfully my anger is realigned when a woman calls the Center demanding we reimburse her security deposit for her catered wedding reception even though the engagement was called off yesterday and the wedding is in a week.

Just another lovely day at Brooklyn Center.

* * *

A short time later, when demanding conversations are over and Asher Julian is far from my mind, all I can think of is how defeated I feel. Rather than be frustrated, I focus on the one thing that I could somewhat easily try to make right in my life that will also bring me joy; Blaine.

_Hey, I have a proposition for you_, I text him.

I barely have to wait more than a few minutes before I hear back from him.

_What kind of proposition?_

I smile. One I know he won't refuse.

_A game. Something to make sure you miss me while you're gone._

I may not know much about Blaine, but I know he's competitive. And if there's a chance that he'll win or will get some sort of prize out of it, he's game. Plus we need new ways to connect if we won't be having sex.

_What game are you proposing?_ he asks.

I can't help but grin as I type. _I was thinking Truth or Dare._

He doesn't respond for a long moment, and I wonder if I've pushed too far. But then, finally, my phone beeps again.

_You aren't allowed to dare me to have sex._

I almost laugh out loud. Still, I have to admire his stubbornness and desire to stick to his rules, though it would be tempting to dare him to do that.

_Fine. But everything else is fair game._

There's another long pause, but this time I know I have him.

_You have no idea what you're getting yourself into._

_Bring it on_, I reply.

He takes my challenge to heart, not even waiting for rules aside from his about not having sex.

Him: _Right now? Where are you?_

Me: _At work. It's 3pm on a weekday, where else would I be?_

Him: _I didn't want to assume. I know you're a very in-demand man. So which will it be? Truth or dare?_

Me: _Who said you get to ask first?_

Him: _I did._

Me: _Fine. But we have to name stakes first._

Him: _Aren't there already stakes in Truth or Dare?_

Me: _I mean if someone refuses to do something._

Him: _I'm guessing you have something in mind? And then: Sex is still not allowed._

I bite my lip. I know that I want to challenge him and get him to open up to me. I want to help him, want to chase the darkness away from his mind, and I can only comfort him if I know what's going on. But demanding outright that he reveal his family secrets is pushy, even for me. I have to play this carefully.

Me: _If you refuse to do something, you have to tell me about that call you took during our first date._

Something shifted between us the moment he took that call. If I can get to the bottom of that conversation, then I can help him. Help us. Blaine doesn't respond for several minutes. I start to grow anxious, afraid that I went a step too far.

But then: _If you refuse to do something, you have to tell at least one person about us. Each time you refuse. I'll even let you pick who it will be._

Damn. He knows what he's doing. But there's no backing out now.

Me: _Agreed._

Him: _Let's go then. Truth or dare?_

I guess we're actually doing this.

_Dare._

I practically stare at my phone, curiosity eating at me as I wonder what fate he will bestow upon me.

Him: _Are you at your desk?_

Me: _Yes?_

Him: _Alone?_

Me: _Yes…_

Him: _Is your door open?_

Me:_ Yes, but what are you getting at?_

This line of questions has me intrigued. What could he possibly want me to do alone but with the door open?

Him: _I want you to get yourself off. Right now._

I stare at the screen for awhile, trying to make sure that I'm reading this correctly, before my phone starts to ring.

"Hello?"

"Well, you aren't backing out already are you? The game only just begun," Blaine teases through the earpiece.

"For someone who wants us to hold out on sex, this seems like this is moving in the opposite direction."

"Not really," he decides. "I'm not the one there doing anything. And besides, you said everything else goes. Don't think I'm not privy to the fact that you intended to use the "everything else" when it was my turn."

I know he's trying to intimidate me and call me on the fact that I'm not entirely comfortable in getting off while at my workplace. Not only does he want to win, but he wants to try to get me to fold before we've even started. But he should know Kurt Hummel is a stubborn son of a bitch.

"All right," I say.

He chuckles darkly. "You have to stay on the phone with me while you do it, I can't just take your word for it."

"Blaine, I'm hardly going to be making porno noises over here. I am at work, I have to have a small level of modesty despite what you've asked me to do."

"You don't have to make a sound. I know what you sound like when you come, how your breathing changes; I'll know."

I shiver as his dark tone rolls over me. Jesus, when he says something like that it's hard for me not to have a reaction to it. Part of me wants to be a little more theatrical about it and make a little noise, I'll just have to be subtle about it and try not to be too loud.

Thankfully I'm wearing looser pants today so I don't have to work as hard to unzip my fly and open up the front just enough to stick my hand in the slit in my boxer briefs. It's certainly still a little awkward and the angle I have to sit at while obscuring the motion of my hand is a little weird, but it might look like I'm lounging slightly to someone who walks in… as long as they don't watch my hand.

I slide my hand in and am met with the velvety skin of my half hard cock. Despite our conversation being so brief, Blaine as worked me up just enough to get my dick a little interested. Hopefully I can harden and get off quickly so this will all be over with.

As I get myself situated and start to build up a rhythm, I notice Blaine is silent on the other side.

"Aren't you going to help?" I ask.

"No, I want this to be all you."

He says that with an almost cocky tone, as if he knows that I must be thinking of him as I dryly stroke my cock, a little quicker than usual but with a less firm grip with the hopes that the stimulation will be enough to induce an orgasm but not enough to chafe. But just because he isn't helping me doesn't mean I can't tease him a little. Besides, he might crack and actually reciprocate if I start first.

"I bet you wish you could see this," I whisper in the phone as my steady pace continues. "I bet you like watching me."

He doesn't respond, but I keep going.

"How long did you watch me last time? How long did you wait watching me fist my cock before you dove into the car and fucked me?"

My pace picks up slightly with the feather light touch doing just enough to keep things going while not working too quickly toward the wall of orgasm.

"I've watched you too, you know," I say, admitting the one thing he might not have known from our tryst at the Anderson manor. "From the secret passage outside your room. I saw you watching porn and saw you get yourself off."

Blaine chuckles deeply in his throat. "Naughty boy," he groans, "you liked it, didn't you?"

God did I ever. But before I could elaborate on how much I liked it and how I was using it to fuel this session right now, Morgan passed by my doorway.

"I'm running down to grab some coffee," she says, stepping inside my office. I shift further under the desk and stop the pace on my cock - deathly afraid that she'll realize what I'm doing with my arm jogging up and down like it had been a moment ago.

Blaine must be able to hear her faintly through the other side of the phone. "Don't stop," he commands.

I gesture toward the phone, thankful that I have one hand free for less salacious things.

"Ooh, sorry!" she says, but before she turns around to leave my office she turns back and takes yet another step closer. "Is it him?" she whispers?

I'm more terrified now than before since if she took one step closer she would probably be able to see part of my dick with my hand wrapped around it. My chair sits up too tall for me to fully obscure my waist but the desk covers enough though if she were standing practically right over me, she would know what I was up to.

I slide forward with an attempt to hide further, or at least to shift to relieve myself a little. "Can I talk to you later?" I say, voice straining with nervousness and sexual frustration.

"Of course," she says, thankfully willing to let the topic die and removes herself from my office.

"You're not done yet are you?" Blaine asks, full well knowing that I have not had an orgasm with my friend standing right there. Despite the fact that the conversation shocked me, it somehow hadn't managed to lessen my desire and I was closer than ever as my delicate touch had turned a bit firmer as I wanted to come right now. "Tell me about the time you watched me, I want to hear all the details," he requests.

I'm too preoccupied between the jerking of my fist and the control I'm trying to exhibit to not cry out as I near my orgasm, but I try. "The first night at your estate," I breathe. "I went into the secret passage and I wandered until I found your room. You were naked, watching porn."

The admission and reliving it all over again fuels me even more. Blaine remains silent on the other line, but I know I'm nearing the end of this challenge and will soon find relief. If anyone walked by now, they'd have to know what I was doing - and I wouldn't be able to stop.

"You watched me from the passage," Blaine prompts.  
"Yes," I practically moan, biting my lip in response since I don't need to call attention to what I'm doing by moaning like a whore.

"Just watched?"

That bastard. I can't be mad; I'm too close to be anything other than focused on getting off. "I… touched… myself…." I supply, unable to hold back on my primal grunting.

Blaine groans in response and I'm no longer able to stay silent. I'm moaning and trying to keep it down but I'm not sure how long I can keep this up. I'm so close though…

"Come now, Kurt. Come. I want to hear you. Hear you knowing how you watched me."

Pleasure tears through me and I gasp while grabbing hold of the side of my desk with my free hand. My head thumps back against the headrest and my breathing starts to level out. I'm still trying to regulate my breathing when Blaine speaks up.

"Well, I should leave you to clean up and compose yourself. And you still probably have some work left to do before you're finished there," he says smugly.

It takes another minute of me breathing and trying to discreetly wipe my cum off my hands into a towel when I manage to respond.  
"What about your turn?" I ask.

"I'll be waiting."

I'm sure he will, especially after that show. And after what he just put me through, he better be ready for something really good.

* * *

_A/N: Hi y'all! Sorry for the delay - work got cray cray. Hope y'all are doing well and enjoying this story lots and lots! Please be sure to leave some love and share this story with your friends!_


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